In these interchangeable halls
people seem the same.
The artsy cellist glides past
with the same lead black bobbed hair
as the rebound girl of my friend last year
after I rejected him.
The cocky tenor, perfectly shaved,
dances by with wispy hands,
pressed shirt tucked into belted pants.
The hipster who gives a damn
expressed by his flannel hat dripping with
political slogan pins
sits in inky shadow.
So familiar -
I could go anywhere, and they'd be there.
But no blank face has your shape.
How cruel, that in a school
where everyone who doesn't matter
surrounds me everyday,
--or anyone who looks like you--
evade every hallway
I meander through.