I thought, you. And then I stared and wished that I was back in your line of sight, that time that you tried to take a photo of me and I held up my hand. You had never even touched it. It was deemed artsy and you used me to pick up chicks who thought you were creative. The many times I thought yes, and felt yes from you too. But all we did was stare and I want to touch your Greek hair just once. And I sold smiles and sweets to strangers while you gave out pop and judgements. How comedic, how blase. How soon could I get you to never stop thinking about me?