There is a woman in this town. I pass her in the halls, and we are always in the same coffee shop. I wish there was less space between us. How do I describe her?

I wouldn't exactly call her beautiful, but she is undeniably fascinating. I wish she was less of a mystery to me. She is tall and clumsy and has a permanent smirk. Her hands are always moving and she runs her fingers through her hair when she is bored or nervous. I wish I could be close enough to feed off of that energy.

She likes food and books more than most people. A bit of a grouch, and always sarcastic, and I have more than once witnessed her snap someone in half with her whip-like words. I wish she would turn that voice to a conversation I could be a part of.

She tends to attract sideways leery glances from people - a mixture of wonder and yearning. Those few people that actually talk to her say she is funny in a weird quirky way. They don't really know what to do with her. I wish I knew.

She gives off the air of someone unapproachable, which is only a part of why I have yet to even say hi - but I cannot miss her silent laughter, and the way her friends defer to her in their conversations as if she is some sort of quiet, unofficial leader. She doesn't seem to need her friends when they are around, but, I’ve noticed, she sometimes looks so lost when they aren't there. I wish I could approach her in these moments.

She gets this look, a faraway, sad, blank look. It's like she has travelled far away, and wherever far away is, it is much more beautiful than this place. Whatever world she has locked away in her mind, I am sure it is more than this sorry place. She falls off the edges of ours and into hers. I wish I could follow her.

She has these scars on her arms. They are old, but they worry me. That sad look and those old scars tell a story I cannot get close enough to read. Her eyes and her skin and the shape of her emotions through the air write out a history that makes her a real person. I wish I knew how to read the language.

She draws. Everywhere. On her desk, in the margins of her notebooks, across the top of her beat up converse. These drawings are eerily beautiful and not the normal doodles you would expect, not stars or hearts or swirling spirals. Half-formed beasts hide between letters, and fluttering wings and paw prints lead to thickets of secrets. I wish I knew what her inspiration was.

She reads. Everything. Sci-fi, fantasy, historical fiction, action adventure. She always has a book with her, usually a new one each week. She pulls them from her bag, one after the other, like Mary Poppins. Whatever she is reading must be good, because sometimes she squirms in her seat in reaction, eyes wide and lips turned up in a smile. I wish I could write something to make her smile.

She fascinates me. Her not-beauty and her not-shyness and her bookishness and her artisticness and her light and her dark and the way her eyes are like comets. I wish she knew me.

There is a man in this town. I sit across the room from him. I only see him during our shared lunch and sometimes when our shifts overlap. I wish my desk was closer to his. How would I describe him?

He isn't hot or gorgeous. He seems smaller than that. Hunched shoulders and hands folded quietly in front of him. I wish I knew what made him so humble. He is lovely. Pale and quiet, like a black and white sketch. All long limbs and gentle glances and graceful, careful movements. I wish I could capture his quietness in my art.

He reads almost as much as I do and sometimes smiles to himself as if he sees the humor and irony that is lost to most people. He laughs quietly and easily, and it shakes his whole body so he has to stop walking sometimes. He takes up less space than you'd expect from someone so tall but never has seemed like a small person. I wish he would take up more of the space next to me.

He avoids the crowds that accumulate after hours. He almost seems intimidated by their loudness and flirty ways, especially that of the girls. But no one is ever really mean to him. They smile and wave and comment on movies; they seem to want to include him, but not know how. I wish I knew how.

He seems so lonely sometimes, but then I am reminded, so suddenly it is almost painful, that he has some of the best of friends. They are few, but you can see that they all love each other. The way they interact like a flock of birds, one responding to the other and all responding to one; it is so beautiful. I wish I could be a part of that beauty.

Sometimes, he sits there, after a project is completed or at the end of the day, completely still and silent. He sort of turns in on himself and the whole world seems to move around him and his little bubble. In these moments, he looks completely at home, no matter what is happening around him. I wish I knew what was happening inside him.

He looks so tired. There are almost always dark circles under his eyes, and the past couple of months, there has at least once a week been dark stubble across his chin. His shoulders sag under the weight of wakefulness. I wonder about what it is that keeps him up so late at night. I wish I could know.

Sometimes as we walk down the hall from one place to another, or when he sits in the chair behind me at lunch, I hear him humming to himself. Melodic songs that sound like they would be played on piano or guitar. His fingers drum soft rhythms on the table tops and his shoes keep the beat like a metronome. I wish I knew the titles of his songs.

He listens to music. All the time. During work, break time, lunch, even in meetings and lectures. There is always an earbud in his ear, and sometimes he will nod his head to the beat or jump when the song becomes unexpectedly loud. I wish I could capture his attention enough to get him to turn the volume down.

He fascinates me. His subtle beauty and his jumpy stillness and his artistic motion and his shyness and his brightness and his joy and his exhaustion and his lightning eyes. I wish he knew me.