You're not like other girls
She was a woman
obsessed
with love as I was too: a woman of my time, excusing herself for a man, slipping out the back to the payphone or iPhone to find out whether he was still in the same area code.
She lived with her heart full and her head sick until a letter or a message with love reminded her she was worth it and her L'Oréal wasn't needed because he loved her hair natural and her face without makeup and rouge and she was so happy, so over the moon she found herself stirring rice, folding clothes, cleaning so he didn't have to and reading his letters on his iPhone until an invitation, maybe an instruction, lead her to that call phone.
The phone rings endlessly in a room where a man says leave it to a woman on his bed, her sister, who will find out this grief is shared and all woman are timeless