Your Haircut

     When I write in public places I sometimes re-read outloud in a whisper & it's creepy.
I'm waiting on a date & I keep thinking she's you & that's creepy.
     I catch myself looking out the window for a red truck that she doesn't drive.
She will enevidably sneak up on me if she comes at all.

     I find myself being nicer to girls who look like you & I am continuously dissapointed when they open their mouth.
It is never you that pops out.  It's a stranger that I have never missed or loved.
     And I am only excited because I took this pill.
I took this pill and it made me feel good about everyone with your haircut.
     Everyone who wears flannels & zip up hoodies & drives trucks.
But no one has your smile, or your polite willingness to please.
     She has neither.  Only the haircut & the truck.

I wonder if you do that with me.
     Playing the same pathetic game
letting short, petite, curly-haired girls catch your eye more often.
     Maybe you're too smart for that, maybe the likeness hurts or is simply bothersome.
I wouldn't know because sometimes I find joy in painful things.