The table sits empty.
Chairs all stand in place.
Sun streams across the room.
Unused questions sit stiff
behind closed glass doors
Outside the street still sounds
like it had us;
caught like loose magazines
spinning in the rush,
struggling to keep our place in the crowd.
You-said I’m only passing by,
I said well I’m just..passing through.
I recognized you
first, I think,
just before the moment cracked open
a sliver of time for dealing in mysteries;
loose connections to familiar places;
intimate glimpses of anything next,
as the moment undressed.
There was a taste in the air.
And then the stage light pans
to this scene of chance,
left to wander in the still life portrait;
pinned like a butterfly;
shivering on the light post,
in black and white.
Where we stand in place;
in the territory of memories;
in the company of yes, and maybe, and if;
as we lean in almost too close to be true; .
Where we whisper, like infiltrators,
as each one of us will confess,
that you were only passing by,
and I was just..passing through.