by Joel Groomer

I saw you last night, standing in the

background, behind all the noise and

flashing lights, looking so cool—

confident—

but not really feeling that way.

Your face was covered

by a shadow

(it was dark anyway),

but I already knew you were

beautiful.

The trench coat looked nice,

but it wasn't your style

(maybe just adding to the mystery?).

I've seen you around,

walking down town as if

you knew where you were going;

like you had the world under

your thumb.

You looked invincible,

but, really, were scared out of

your skin

(and what soft skin it was).

I heard you wishing that

you weren't alone

in the back of your thoughts,

and wanted to come be with you.

Don't ask me why I didn't

(it's complicated).

I came to you once,

in your dream,

but forgot what I wanted to say.

Something about love,

or infatuation,

or maybe just "hello."

It doesn't matter much

(you woke up).

I searched all night

trying to find you

again.

I guess you never went back to sleep

(as if sleep were a place you could walk to).

I'll see you tomorrow,

like I do every Tuesday.

This time I'll stop you

(I hope)

and introduce myself

(maybe).

I'll ask you out for coffee,

if I can find the courage.

And if I don't—

if I can't—

then I'll walk into

your dream

again, because it's just

so much easier

there.