My mother always told me to find a man who treats his mother right…
Please don’t look at that girl that way
with her bangs hanging loose over her glasses.
Why can’t she be reading in a cafe?
She looks like a Katy or a Cynthia.
Her braid trickles down to her third rib.
Well maybe she likes the background noise.
What words have those fingers tread over
In war zones or kingdoms of black ink?
You don’t even know her. She could be really nice.
I crave to know what she’s thinking,
And her moods and what she does when she is even more alone.
Who cares about her shoes…
She is nobody. She is somebody to me.
She is the lightning in the storm and you are the rain.
I’m not being defensive; I’m being human.
I like her shoes. I like that she probably thrifted them.
I like the way her sweater reminds me of France.
No, you’re not an ass…
I’m an umbrella.
How could I tease the lightning?
Forget about it. Let’s just forget about it.
Her neck bends left and she looks like she’s thinking.
Please don’t be that way
To a girl like me.