Writing on the train

She's beautiful in my book
admittedly it's not well read
critically acclaimed with grains of salt
weary eyes and heavy heads
She calls me icarus - I'm flying low to the forest
she's too taken by bright sparks as flames rise before us
(she) shoots a look at me
down at the pen and pad
adjusts herself so she can read the words I've scribbled down and
I hand her the paper
she asks me if It's mine
I say "I just gave it to you, didn't I?"
She laughs at my reply

"I don't say this very often
But I lie alot - it's true
I'm a narcissist, I smile
'cause I see myself in you"