Lady at the Open Mic

these are only musings, musing on her and the grace she moved with and I wonder did it come with age, a self-assured wisdom after the growing ache of a man looking through her crumbled to ashes? did she bloom beneath that disposition undisturbed, unflattened by Invisible Woman Syndrome? or maybe they kept looking like i couldn’t help but do, her lines enumerated beneath feline eyes and white cropped hair and i could in that moment feel her bathed in Australian sun, skin tattooed with the crinkled euphoria of happy recollection. her poems were good. i wished i could muster a conceivable reason to hug her but there really wasn’t one because people weren’t giving out hugs after the readings so i pictured what it’d be like if she were my mother, would her warmth like a quiet charisma have made me colder as if two crystals passing energy between them containing all….. but none unto themselves? so she made me think of everything and nothing by means of standing still because see she read so well I was captivated by the Australian accent and perhaps in her plain-clothed regency she reminded me of a cat and naturally I couldn’t help but think she was….. sublime or something like that