Who is she?
She is an angel with a dark side, yet as light as her skin-tone. She’s on to the next like pages in a novel, a being of enchantment. Poet once again meets poet, only, there’s no back story to this one, nothing more than coincidental interest by one party, my party.
Does she know? Probably not, and I’m too shy to mention it, so I’m forced to speak in short intervals. It’s something about her. Something about how the way she puts her headphones in, or maybe the music she listens to. Possible the way she giggles or her reluctance to splay out what she’s thinking. It could be our opposite natures.
It’s something about the way she pushes her glasses up when they’re down, or something about how she looks in black.
It could be something about our short convos, or how much her nature reminds me of another. Perhaps it’s her known social signature or even the way she talks.  
Or, the truth is, I don’t know what it is, I just know she’s got my attention, and I know I want hers too.
I catch feelings like baseball players, find potential love like scavenger hunts, but they don’t lead me anywhere, they only look good in my mind, but this one is different. This one might actually be, might actually begin with an intimatic courtship and end with a breakage rather than a separation.
But how could it?
How could I possibly think of things that might never even be meant to be? How selfish of me to decide without her knowledge. But I’m desperate for my heart to run like it used to, desperate for the feel of what love can be. I lived off of expression, expression didn’t live off me, but now I’m running out of fumes in an empty tank, Abandoned on the side of a road less traveled yet worn and torn by those who dare travel it.
And of those, I am the last.