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.