As You Like It

I am the girl in the yellow cardigan.
I am the one who got away.
I fall in love with one actor per play,
and a few humans per ride on the subway,
so don't think you're special.

I am the girl who notices a missing line.
Mere mortal, fool, I forgive you, but
every line is essential,
even the seemingly throw-away ones:
The words or lines He added
just to complete His obsessive compulsion
with language and math, rhythm and rhyme.
Was it painstakingly purposeful
or did perfection come naturally?

I don't know anything about actors.
I never studied them in the wild.
My thoughts are loud and crowded,
tucked away so neatly that you'll never find me,
though I imagine you'll look.
I should not have come alone.

I am the girl who takes
one prolonged gaze out into the Audience Sea,
one moment of smiling eye-lock,
the simple poetry of lips forming measured words,
and files them in my card catalog heart
marked under "A"
for "actor" or "apple," "Avon" or "ache."