the other one, the one whose name ends in f as in frank -ett e r s, graces the sidewalks of santa monica with endless legs and smooth hair; she is quite instagramworthy though she does not know it at the time. she is in various places throughout the day, destined to awaken brightness within another and she moves with a softness unfamiliar to me; i am mindful of her temperament as it is effortless unlike mine. i fight with the day & burdensome thoughts and confess that i need a dose of cafe to peel off enough energy to begin. i confess she is my superior in poise and modesty but she is not me and i am not her. it cannot be. so what am i to make of my self on days when all is quiet? i read and ponder and probe. i move slowly and i travel slowly as one should do and little by little we have rhythm in opposing places. but i find that i long for her tempo (instead of fine tuning mine.) i wonder where she is and what is she doing? as one does when they are in love. i carry these thoughts around with me when i wonder what it is must be like to be one of a kind.

when we are on the same geographic plane, life is enchanted, she & i are exuberant! a force of identical nature: we walk with the kind of confidence only she possesses (though she never realizes). we are tantamount in humanness, exactness. yet we are mutually exclusive, me & her. i am the other one, the one with crooked legs and no softness.

who am i apart from her, and she apart from me?