She stands before a mirror,
swaying gently to the sounds
of anguish in the room above.

She sits in the café.
She's nursing the same drink
she always orders.
Just trying to drag out the time.
Because today could be the day.
Today you may look over and see
her. You may recognize her from
the hallways. From the mail
boxes. From the laundry room.
You may see her. Really see her.
If only for a minute.

She reads to herself. Holding
her place with her thumb.
Withstanding the interruptions.
It's you and that woman again.
That woman hates you.
She can feel it. You can't.
How easy would it be to
come downstairs. There would
be a friend, a lover, a soul mate
waiting for you. All you have to
do is move. All you have to do
is notice.

She is alone. She is always alone.
It's such a big city. There are so
many people. She is so afraid to
talk to them. To show the world
who she is. They tell her it'll change.
That the pills will help.
That all she needs to do is make one
friend and the others will just happen.
But it doesn't.
They don't.
They won't.

She sways gently to the noise.
She loves the way she looks
when she dances.
It's the only time she can look
at herself in the mirror.
She wishes you could see her.
She wishes you would see her.
But you won't.
You never will.