THAT girl in the corridor, that girl in torn jeans and blue jumper who flashes a smile and moves away: what does she know of me?
That girl at the door, that girl in a skirt too short for this winter day who mutters an apology as she walks in late: what does she know of me?
They know nothing of me. I know nothing of them.
They could tell me tales that would make me weep. I could tell them my brother died today.
If we did, perhaps we would look at each other for a second and say an awkward sorry before we went back to what we were.
He dies, you die, I die; life stops for no one.
Life stops only for the one who died.