So many times you will see

someone on the street who you will never meet

again, and believe you could fall in love.

You will look back, and they will not be looking

at you.

A few times you will think

No. I don't want to love you.

I don't want to play songs that sound like you

until they become my whole head, I don't want

to write a poem 

if you ever call me laughing and cold

She has just showered, and her hair hangs limp down her back, washed of the shampoo she waited five minutes, forehead against the cool tile wall, to rinse off. The sky is ink and charcoal, but then, it has been for hours.