There are certain people, I tell her.
It doesn't happen often but I still cry
when they walk away. If our paths cross.
I cry when it's time to say goodbye.
But there isn't a reason, not anymore.
They're imprinted on me, I'm saying.
Her defiantly ungreen, unbrown eyes
(she will not be defined)
swallow me, then spit me out.
She pities me. Then she forgets what
I have said because the sky is blue
and there are dresses.
I want my words back.
I want to be her.
I want to know how to forget.
I want to know
how to pity the stupid.