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Who are you, man with the blazing eyes?
Hidden in the background you remain, but your firm presence is undeniable.
Day by day you are passed by unnoticed and unperturbed by this fact.
You. The quiet observer. The secret philosopher.
One glance and I can recognize your steadfast intuition.
You are strong. You are silent. You have an element of mystery
which
leaves
me
terrified.
Whether a lover or a murderer, I cannot be certain,
All I know is that I am undeniably drawn to you.
Drawn to your danger and your secrecy.
Drawn to your strength, your resolution,
Drawn to the interesting prospect that your days are beyond mine
Is this a curse or a blessing?
Who are you, man with the blazing eyes?
You are enticing
And you'll never know it.
I think.
You were the last person I shared comfort with
I watched you hold my heart again
And witnessed you melt with humility for the first time..in a long time
I felt you and loved every second of it
Because you were mine
 Mar 2013 lucy anne
Amelia
Next to you
side by side
for this ride.

Here on the metro,
It’s the time we spend
Staring and sleepily
anxiously, awaiting.

All in it together
For this short ride.
Look at her, over there.
Or him, eyes everywhere.

Or you— so close,
But distant as you
Gently grip my hand.
Busy mind or absent mind?

Quietness that stings,
My daily eagerness
To hear.

Slouched over,
Fighting the sleep
That wants to take over.

Here,
I silently anticipate
The moment of your revival.
Or maybe it’s not sleep
But merely me.

I take a quick glance,
Nothing.
A longer glance at you.
A smile begging
For something in return.

Come on,
This ride is too short.
The stop has almost
Arrived.

Our travels will
Come to an end too fast.
The Journey closes
And we will wait

Separately.

Waiting at the bus stop.
Counting down
the minutes
To be next to one another

Once more.

Waiting for the next bus.
The ride we have
Together.

Don’t worry,
We won’t miss it.

I saved for the fare.
Did you?
But please, awaken.
I long for your eyes.

On mine.

The ride is a short one,
But I am next to you.
Side by Side,

It’s the best of travels.
I think I can read your mind,
I think I've been there,
Where you are.
Don't be offended.
You've been here too, right?
Let's just speak
To one another
About it.
Maybe I'm wrong,
But if we talk
We'll know then,
And we'll both be there,
At least.
She lives a quiet life,
she tiptoes around,
she whispers when she speaks,
she hardly ever makes a sound.

Although her words are quiet,
her mind is very loud.
She has so much to say,
but no one listens for soft sounds.

She's an invisible girl,
who doesn't want to stand out,
she just wants to be heard,
without having to shout.

Sometimes the loudest people,
aren't saying much at all.
Empty words and promises,
just leave their mouths and fall.

But whispered words fly high,
and catch peoples attention,
they're intriguing, so amazing,
but only when they listen.

So look outside the spotlight,
because often the real star,
isn't anyone on stage,
but the mind behind it all.
 Mar 2013 lucy anne
Megan Grace
I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.
 Mar 2013 lucy anne
TC
Ghost Tour
 Mar 2013 lucy anne
TC
The clumsy metaphor of a graveyard
will go largely unnoticed by me for some time,
by then I will still love you
and you will love someone else.

We don’t know this. We’re stumbling through
snowcapped, oddly pristine tombstones
at midnight while a thirty-something
Brooklynite rambles about
upkeep of monuments to dead things,
the finessing of memories into smooth
marble and granite boxes but I do not listen,
the swooping nape of your neck distracts me.
I will later regret this.

How did I miss something dying
right next to me, as we held hands,
where did the love go when I gave back
the scrapbook you made called
"70 Reasons Why I Love You,"
because memories weren't good enough,
memories remind me that every corpse
once loved and we all die and we all love
but I'd rather die
than feel like this.

How couldn't I tell
from the way we kissed
that everything was wrong?
I know nothing of
the upkeep of monuments to dead things,
the bodies in my head have all been exhumed
or burned and given back,
and I should have listened
to that ******* hipster because

after all this time,
I cannot remember anything
but your exposed alabaster skin,
flushed by cold,
on that lonely winter night.
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