Slow dancing to the faint hum of unrequited attraction

She lives in a shit
brick row apartment, the kind where
we can converse softly on the couch over Ellington, and still
hear her sister  
getting fucked in the  
next room through gaunt white walls.
That doesn't matter to me, no– no.
Sometimes she'll dance–
and not to
any particular music,
though she's got this-
beautiful,
nascent open mind
To mine (recommendations and such).
 
 
Minutes turn– hours, six, twelve,
staring at her spackled ceiling
as we delved
into our own selves—
and before we'd our fill of
searching hands
future plans
and brushing noses,
The sun rose.
 
 
Two days later,
I'm taken back to
this
surreal,
undeserved experience
driving through nowhere between
verdant rolling hills,
under craggy branches of trees so old they
weep gently with the blood of centuries
spilt–
if you know how to listen.
I'm afraid she might not.
 
 
I get a message: I'm just a friend now—
"Good things come to those who wait"
just not those who wait for me,
and she's set on those good things.