You, Me

You, Me

You parade on the wet sidewalk while I push my hands

into my pockets, the echoing clomp of your boots

unanswered by the hushed step of my old sneakers.

Your gold curls bounce in the night air while I make sure

my hair ribbon is still in place. I step silently

into puddles when you’re not looking.

We walk under a lamp, your cream skin and my caramel

emerging from the darkness.  The lenses

of our glasses glint, yours in beat to the music of your IPod.

You still strut, and the corners of my mouth

turn up as I try not to laugh.  “What?” you ask smiling,

“you know you can’t rock these boots like I can.”

“Maybe not,” I think while my shoes leave wet prints,

a hundred subtle clues to what I’ve done.  They’d teach you

about me, but you don’t notice.  This night confirms

though you’re my friend, you haven’t met me yet.