Maggie won't stop watching Charlie Bartlett,
she claims she was Kat Dennings in another life.
I try to dissect her lack of compassion
with a cheap bottle of red merlot wine.



She says:

'I ride a ******* fixed gear.
I'd rather drive a car.
And although you'd never know
I self-inflicted this here scar.
Why do you like Stephen King?
Do you know what I'm thinking?
...
Anxiety really mellows a woman out.'

Her mind is like a whirlwind.
I don't know where to begin.
Should I ask about her fears
about her tears
or why she's so thin?
She's watching Netflix again
and I can't pretend
to understand the kind of man
that she wished I am.



She breaks the silence:

'I lie to strangers too much.
I'm afraid to be touched
or mistaken for someone
who's too much of a lush.
I feel I'm far too shy
and I don't know why.
...
Introspection really seems to calm me down.'

So we sit on the couch
just watching tv.
I think a calm and understanding
is all that she needs.
And when someone talks,
no matter how it seems,
sometimes a listener
is the best thing that you can be.