by Emma Bishop


With sweaty palms,

I stand in a room with a woman,

I think I know her,

I think we are the same,

I feel my blood pumping,

My nerves heightened.

She is beautiful,

With her short hair,

Suit and button up shirt.

I speak quietly,

In awe.

I am enamored immediately.

Here she is, a writer, a creator

In middle age,

With a gold band on her ring finger

And I think

That could be me one day.

I hold onto her name until I get home,

I find a photo of her and her wife,

A picture of her kid

And all of her history.

And I cry.