my lost love

you fall in love
with a movie
star.
greta garbo
in black and white.
her skin as pale
and soft
as a fish filet.
but she's dead
now so you've
got no shot at a
romance, and if
she was alive
she'd be way
over a hundred,
just slightly out
of your normal
dating range.
you adored that crazy
hat she used to wear,
pulled down
snug over her dark hair,
and how she smoked
a cigarette
as if annoyed
or disgusted with
the human race,
especially men.
you admired her aloofness,
wanting to be
alone. you get that.
you really really
get that.
plus, she didn't
say much.
bonus points for
that. you'd be
worried though
about all that make
up smearing all over
your pillow cases
when she began to cry,
as you imagine she would
at some point.
her eyebrows were
black as if drawn
on by a grease pen,
perfect arcs
above her bedroom
eyes. you say
bedroom only because
kitchen eyes,
or basement eyes
would sound silly
and god forbid that
you'd ever let yourself
sound silly.