I sit alone.
Half tempted to walk
across the room to eyes
that know my lies.
Gesture out willingness
and hope she reads
between the lines.
She has the mark of past beauty,
perfect for the eccentric age.
Flat cheeks flushed
but never reddened.
Eyes that catch gazes,
seemingly all knowing.
Undermining my expressions then,
but since never showing.
We sit together.
She speaks of selfish men
And I speak of conniving women.
She insists we aren’t all like that,
even in our dismay.
Just left swimming,
lost in someone else’s bay.
We both made our demands
And swore hearts
had been beaten.
Now laughing at our hearsays,
Laughing to still be living.
I wish I could sweep away her browns.
Her hair,
it's always dangling.
Those potent lips
I will not confuse,
instead beauty from a simpleton,
just misconstrued.