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Beautiful Stranger

I was at a coffee shop. The Primitives were on and you sang along to the Nanananananas. And I wished I would have sang along with you. I get messed up with you. With you. But I don’t vibrate at that speed.

I suppose I was afraid of coming off as as if I were rude. How do you tell a stranger she’s beautiful, without being strange? How do you tell a stranger she’s beautiful, without feeling strange?

Then I saw you saw you at the grocery store, the one that feels like you’re going into war. You have to compete to find that thing that would make your meal seem complete. And though you smiled at me, I ducked away into the cheese, weak in the knees. I am an idiot, indeed.

I suppose that I was afraid of coming off as rude. How do you tell a stranger she’s beautiful, without being strange? How do you tell a stranger she’s beautiful, without feeling strange? Isn’t it strange?