Brentwood School

Poem: Have we met before?

Short, dark hair frames your delicate, round face.

This blunt cut makes you look strong,

like you know what you want.

I wish I knew what I wanted.

I feel like I know you 

but I cannot say how.

You wax and wane,

ever changing yet constant, somehow.

Unlike the ones who beg for attention,

you demand to be seen.

You wear your clothes for yourself,

dispelling rules 

established by those who came before.

The soles of your feet are filthy with grime,

but you are unconcerned. 

I feel like I’ve met you in a dream,

you are so familiar to me.