I stopped because she was absolutely riveting.
She actually wore a beret, had fully bought in to the whole scene.
Everything came together as I watched her perform,
as I watched her play the crowd.
I wanted her to hesitate when she looked at me, to stumble over her words, and come to a stop.
But she didn’t.
I understood: The poem was all to her, everything to her.
But to me,
she was the poem,
the art of something so out of the ordinary
it could never fit in.
I wanted to be that vibrant to someone,
for someone to know me so well they’d anticipate
what I’d improvise.
I wished she was my all and everything.
But I never asked her name.
Beyond Panic 