"It's not me, it's the clothes," he said. "Does it really matter?" she asked.
She wanted answers to questions he did not understand.
She walked in on him reading her journal. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Listening to you," he replied.
She was not foolish enough to attempt to save him from himself, despite his obvious need for grace.
He explained himself to her. Not through what he said, but by which he refused to admit.
She calls, only to know that he is there. And it pleases him.4
They held each other, dreaming together, but their dreams were not shared.
Her face was made more beautiful by wisps of hair of which he would brush from her cheek.
She brought her lips to his, then curled them with a mocking smile.
She asked for more, but she wouldn't take what he had to offer.
Who am I to you? No one? Thought so. You don't know me, No one does. That's because I don't stand out in anyway to be noticed. I'm just another face in the fast moving crowd, and I'm getting swept away by the current silence. 010202
"Stop thinking," he said. "You stop thinking I'm thinking about you," she replied.
"You'll never know me well enough to know what it is that I really need," she wanted to say.
"Do you practice that smile of yours?" he asked. "Which one?" she smiled back.