I wonder about this woman inside me, who gazes out,
Unimpressed.
I call myself a girl,
But there is no mistaking her for one.
Somewhere inside me, she is always quietly keeping tabs.
Watching, learning, predicting.
And see, she doesn't care.
Not at all.
While I am tossed to and fro in a maelstrom of tangled feelings,
She sits calm, blasé.
She has all the artful poise
Of an old time movie actress taking a drag on her cigarette in its holder
And letting her exquisite face remain aloof.
Every heartbreak that wrecks me
Barely merits a glance from her,
And I wonder what she is here for.
I really do.
See, love, I adore you
And many others I adore far more
But this woman, this cold eyed graceful woman
With slender wrists
And a penchant for raising only one eyebrow
In response to even the most shocking blow,
She couldn't care less about
Any of you.
I don't know why she is here, I truly don't.
But I do know this-
I rather crave, sometimes, the stillness in her heart.
There is a calm there that is
Unflappable
Unshakable
Unwavering.
Yes, I will lose you,
And so what?
Through her eyes people are only
Things to be lost.
Things that will fade out,
Wear out,
Get out
While they can,
And it matters not.
It is a delicate shrug
And nothing more.
The world is a yawn to her
Where it is a stab wound to me
And I admire her apathy
Almost as much as I fear it.