White Scarf

I don’t think that he would like to know

That I was composing blank, dripping verse about him.

That the blue in his eyes was the color of wisdom

And that I knew the wrinkles on his face were the

Products of times when smiles ran across,

Like rivers through a canyon.

There’s no me within you.

There’s no place for a young and yearning girl in

The scheme of your already old life,

Where you and your wife look at photo albums, together

On the green leather couch at night,

And stare at pictures of old familiar faces smiling

And times when wool sweaters were uncomfortable.

Keren Veisblatt is a freshman at the George Washington University who is still relatively confused about her major. She dabbles in Political Communication as well as Museum Curation. She feels weird speaking in third person ergo, this description might sound rather forced. She was also once a pigeon in Brussels thinking about being a human and anthropomorphism.