My mind insists that life imitates fiction,
So a new semester means different characters,
Or adding one or two to the ensemble cast.
I remain ever the self-central narrator,
But find my character focused on another,
Interpreting her compliments as genuine,
(I should know better at this age? Look at the page!)
Her travel as uncompelling unavailability
(I cheer for this part. "Work that indifference, buddy!"),
Her schedule as crafted to push me away,
So that I'm halfway into a melodrama, which I hate,
and until this point, I've just been watching this happen,
But maybe it ends differently if I write it in a poem.
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