Something about the way she sits,
sending warnings to all around.
They leave her alone; except for a few
men, either brave or stupid enough
to try getting within her fortress walls.

She holds her umbrella, point down,
like a sword, ready at any second
to attack with the slightest provocation.

The shiftiness in her eyes betrays
the secret: she’d just rather not.

She’s not just alone; she’s lonely.
And she prefers it that way.

The hardness of her jaw
says she’s strong enough
to endure and persevere.

And maybe

I don’t want to be alone
anymore. Maybe sometimes
I am surprised
by how much I miss you.

Or maybe

She just looks like you.