Without Ever Knowing Her

And this is when you realize—
when you can’t keep your eyes open
in the back seat one night.

She’s still wearing those bent sunglasses,
thinking about buying a red solo kayak,
a new drawing she scribbled on the train,
one drink with someone else.

At the lake, rain hit in waves
that August.
Neither of you could sit still
under the tents.
It was colder than you thought,
but she kept her sunglasses on,
didn’t bother pouring
the wet sand out of her shoes,
or putting a shirt on.

She was
an answering machine
on purpose,
a chalkboard erased
before you could take the notes,
a concert cut short.

But you’ll still keep her
birthday as your pin
for years
without ever knowing her
or why.

© 2026 Casey Murphy. All rights reserved.

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