by Sammi Murphy
I thought you saw me; my shoes, glasses, and that one strand of hair hanging in the wind. Much too long, curling only at the very end. The bruise on my knee when we danced sporadically (hardly rhythmic) to funky beats; lingerie I wore although I wasn't at all comfortable with my body. Sometimes I imagined you were really listening, my lips trembling in desperation and uncertainty, words gushing out but winding around your ears like a draft of air through the back door. I apologize; I stared at your face hoping I would see one flaw, one freckle I had missed in my previous speculations. I was invisible all along.
Sammi Murphy lives and works in Washington.