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I don’t know her soul; barely seen her eyes, merely glanced at her contours Met her thrice outdoors; always exchanged goodbyes beyond midnight’s four zeroes Once, in the hallowed Connaught, we walked a few miles after the sun had gone home I don’t know her like Joker knew Harley Quinn; she’s a friend of a friend And friends now are a lot like fleeting fashion trends, Who meet, drink, dance, click pictures & promise to meet again Then forget each other's shades by the month's end Her & I may part ways at life’s road’s next sharp curve So, I ain’t gonna pretend to care or love I sit here with pen, paper & thoughts writing this poem with nothing nice to say For the girl whom I didn’t even wish on her nineteenth birthday For the girl with whom I haven’t performed the ritual of digits exchange For the girl famed for her resting bitch face For the girl who gets the shakes when I move in for embrace For the girl who’s one of the rarest h