you've seen her, before.
That Woman.
heard the whispers, the small town gossip.
over decaf skinny lattes and almond biscotti
you sneak a glance her way, and try hard not to breathe. dirty socks hang limp around swollen ankles, is she wearing two skirts? and what is she doing in here?
her smell is mossy and damp, like deep forest. there are
generations of dirt under her fingernails, untold stories behind cloudy eyes.

you just know she knows something you don't.
and as hard as you try to pity her lack.
you know you're the one who's missing.