Tonight I came across a beautiful woman asking for my opinion on a sad situation.
All I could do was give her advice that I would never be able to follow, if repeated back to me.
After this sad attempt at human connection ended, I noticed I felt cold and apathetic.
Not very long ago I would have been inspired to write about this beautiful woman and her romantic predicament.
How she is too perfect for such mistreatment.
A poem that would likely never reach her, and if by some cosmic chance my words did.
She would not connect the perfect specimen my poem is describing as being her, and she would be correct.
Because the poem I would have written based on this flawless woman.
It would not be her, but rather a fictional character I conceived.
Based on nothing more than a few minutes of dialog, sad eyes, perfect half smile, tears running down her left cheek, and the pastel colored clouds that scattered the skyline as our backdrop.
If this poem was ever written and found, I predict she would not see herself in the words I used to paint her.
The women who truly inspires me has never existed anywhere but in my hopeless romantic imagination.
After this encounter has passed and I'm alone with the memories of half formed relationships, unreciprocated love, and basic heart break.
I was reminded of how much I miss writing poems for women that do not exist.
Stringing along carefully selected words that bring me false hope. That maybe one day my poetry and the love I place in these words would find a home in someone willing to interpret and accept them as their own.
