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Molly Grosskreutz

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
about anything
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.


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