Looking for Love in All the Wrong Person — 2
Is she a muse or a mutterer? Surely in speech she is, a mutterer. Like so many of her youth. My nephew is like this.
But no, I mean a mutterer to me. In my thoughts. The soft drone of something indecipherable and unimportant. The flutter of a plane over the Hudson.
But she haunts. Is it really only a push to feel? For that only? This boil of excitement.