And somewhere a rain-flower grows in the wild.
I am just not the girl that fits into your life.
Though I look through your diaries and notes, pointing out at pictures, going, “That’s me !”.
Yes, you write painfully close, but so do many other people.
Even if I don’t make their muse.
And luckily, they write better, because they don’t read me half-wrong.
Your garbled tales of related and non-related -isms, world-politics and yourself
sound like the gibberish noise of rain-fall on the asbestos sheets above-head
and the pelting beats breaking in through a triangular gape in the roof of the corridor.
You and I are not so “We’ after all.
Let me be the paint-picture-girl of your dreams,
the one who waits for the bus at the street corner
and leaves you each day with a new wistful clover of thought, after she boards the bus.