I know your moods, the scent on your wrist.
I know when you have cares, you care to walk,
often by the sea. You would not recognize me.
I am neither short nor tall, handsome nor ugly;
when I enter a room, it is even more empty.
Born on the night of a tire fire, my life doesn’t
smell like roses. Calamity and I have a way
of coinciding. You needn’t worry. I’m content
to linger in parking garages and coffee shops;
eyes that follow in crowds at the mall, fingers
that barely graze your hair. At close range,
words congeal in my throat. One fine day,
I’ll find the courage, the perfect moment.
Until then, I’ll run silent, at a safe distance,
attached to you by a thin, invisible wire.