we were in a room with people we knew, but didn't really know
i was somewhere in the realm between listening and non-listening to those people boast about the skills they had
quietly counting the freckles on my arms- nine
but then they came to you
and i remember clearly,
you said that you have a room in your house
empty, but for a lone typewriter on a desk by the window
where you write
and i listened, looking up from my counting when you said that
and i began to fall in love with you, or the mystery of you
the way you seem is not the way you are
i saw through your facade
your weaknesses lie in your inability to be real with the world
but behind closed doors
i loved your ***** vans and mismatched socks with holes in the toes and the gap between your teeth because these were the little things you thought no one noticed
but what i loved most was the man you became in your quiet, empty secret room, on the top floor of your never empty but always lonely house