It was a train ride,
a journey from sky to earth to sky and back again
bound for a tomorrow becoming yesterday
and another page in a book that only we would read.
It was a day on a rooftop in the wind in April,
cheeks rosy and chapped,
the sun veiled in grey
that swept across a city sky under an
ever-present threat of storms,
storms that came and went far too often
and lingered too long;
you were exactly as you could be, and only what I wanted
—nothing more, nothing less—
a mystery unraveling,
and I couldn’t stop reading:
there was always another page to turn,
another chapter to start,
another sentence to follow to its end
while another—while you—waited patiently for me to read it.
But I wasn’t patient!
I wanted more,
but never more than you were willing to give.
It was an evening among towers and empty streets,
our own private castle to explore until
all that was left to find was our way home
and to each other.
I found myself reflected that day
in brownstone and steel, glass and traffic,
in light and noise and motion,
and in you;
you, there, always there,
standing out among
a million voices
and a million faces,
that so was I.
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