You told me you lived on 76th and Bradley,
but I could never figure out where.
You said that my siblings and I all looked exactly the same,
but I never saw yours.
You asked me if I was dating anybody,
but I never asked if you were.
You would laugh with me and we'd be friends,
but I never knew where the long awkward silences came from.
You would pretend that you didn't stare,
but I almost always caught you.
And for some reason,
I still have your number on my phone.
I was probably as much an enigma to you as you were to me,
but I can't forget the way you talked to and texted me,
flirting with the line,
just enough where I could never figure you out.
So every once in a while,
you dance across my mind,
and I wonder if you still remember me.
