getting over it

I read something on a brick wall today. It was beatiful, articulate, and I wanted to know the person who wrote it. I couldn't help but just stand in front of it, wondering. It was as if they knew me, that they were writing about me. I suppose this was what Roberta Flack was singing about, or possibly what i've been imagining happening to me a lot lately.
It's like, a lot of things I'm reading are being horoscopes. I know they're not written about me, and yet, I place myself in the protagonists shoes, and wonder - what if it was? What if someone did write about me on a wall? What would I do? What would I say?

But you don't need to talk to walls.

They don't talk back.