It's ridiculous,
as I tell myself over and over -
but I can't stop myself
from noticing little things, woven
into innocent chat. It's hell,
trying to sort out what's true
from my wishful thinking - and I
can never quite stop thinking of you.

There's someone with your accent or your smile;
everyone holds some resemblance
to that sheepish boy with the sheepish laugh.

But as I sit swinging my legs over the side of the shelf,
I tell myself not to be daft;
it's ridiculous.