You are so sweet,
he says.
And he means it.

But after he leaves,
he does not see that I stay in my car
and cry
for all of the more intimate details of me
that he forever neglects to acknowledge.

I met a girl today, let’s call her, “A”.

She had brown hair which flowed down over her shoulders and back like ripples in a river of melted chocolate.
Her eyes were rich and sweet like pools of poured molasses.
Underneath layers of woolen thrift shop fabric, her lovely pale wrists and neck peeked out.
We spent hours together, inviting strong coffee to splash down our throats, and giggles to bubble up from our lungs like hot springs.

Through shared trust, she confessed to me that her pastel skin had once been painted black with alien brushes,
Her Hershey hair had known the touch of uninvited fingers,
And her cocoa eyes are forced to replay visions of unimaginable horror in color.  

But I could imagine.
Oh, sweet girl, I could imagine.