I’ve tried many times to understand you,
And each time I forget,
that you’re one of those people that can’t be
forgotten, but one that people desperately try to.

You’re that stranger you pass on the bridge
wearing regular clothes but a strange smile
that’s not a smile at all, but not even a frown.
It’s not an invite to talk, but talk is all you want to do
with this person,
so you can know why her cheeks are so red
and no one is keeping her warm in this cold.
Why is she alone when the world wants to hold her?

And she’ll intrigue you for a short while, this gust of wind
that never really settles
for anyplace other than where she feels safe,
under the covers, with a book and her shovel,
so she can dig her secrets deeper and deeper
and then scream up when the hole’s past six feet.
She’ll say I’m ready for your help, I’m ready now,
but as soon as she’s up, she’ll be off. Just watch.

It’s a cold secret that she keeps in
that non-smile of her’s as she crosses the bridge,
and I want to follow her again
—for the last time, I swear—
but I remember how many times I’ve said that before.
It’s not worth the miles with her. There’s no destination,
just a cruel circle that teaches you nothing,
nothing but how to exhaust yourself
and how to breathe in deeply.

I learned how to breathe from her.
It was the most constant thing about our journey.