You stood at the corner of Flatbush and Dean Street.
I stood right beside you. The light had turned red.
You stood facing forward. I saw you discreetly,
completely, but then later, I wished that I’d said:
You know what? I hate you. You hear me? I mean it.
I admit I once cared but I no longer do.
Instead at the corner of Flatbush and Dean Street
I blurted, Hello there. Oh, I’m fine. How are you?
You asked me dull questions. My answers? So boring.
The couple beside us at Flatbush and Dean
were clueless to the drama so clearly unfolding.
Then again, no one really hears what silence means.
Finally, the light turned green. You walked. I held back
as if suddenly engulfed by a sidewalk crack.

Bio: Drew Pisarra