Walking Past Me

"Somewhere there's somebody who looks just like you do Acts just like you, too, feels the same way Somewhere there's a person in a faraway place With a different name and a face that looks like you" - Edie Brickell, The Wheel. From the sixth floor of my office, there are three birds sitting on the top of my car. I wonder what they talk about all this time. The sun sinks down, reclusive from the longer days. The heat dips lower, slipping into moderate moodiness. The shadows grow long, longer than my blond hair, which was dyed two months ago. My dark roots are stubborn, still showing. While I work, a what could be me slips past me. It chirps a polite excuse me, while I make copies. Glancing down I notice my shoe is untied. My perfume of tang and green tea lingers one step behind her. My skin trembles I feel the air from the polite stranger, turning around I see she is draped in costly clothes. Black from head to toe. In my mind, my hands grasp at the threads. They are thin but strong, they do not break. Grabbing at the chance of making it out of the doors before they shut.