I know you. I know the subtle trance about your traipse—the heavy perfumed lilac fog—your lonely hand atop the corner of a table set for two—your itching apprehension—waiting to be waited on in your black blouse—lighting dim to fade out scars, caked about your face in mascara. I am well acquainted with your face—young lady—though, I doubt you are yourself.

I know you. We live in a chemical age. We thrive in a falsehood, caked about your fingernails—fingertips and fingerprints—feet contorted like a satyr consorting to canter about like the goat you hide in your hair—your chalky face—eyes abated, breath bated—hairs unsoft like waxy spires of perfume-hairspray moss—you in your black blouse, clumsily throwing your arms from side-to-side, but gently—because you do not wish to embarrass yourself. I know this girl.

I know you. I know that you are pretty beneath your facade—but your spirit calls out to me—thrusts its arms out to me in trepidation—bangled girl with the blank expression, swaying up and down—red plastic cups adorn your body—and you turn heads—but God knows that no one may behold you more than once, my river of sorrows. I know you.