From a street nearby, I wrote you
letters. For months they were kept
in a box near the door, stacked up
and waiting. I wish I knew where
you were so I could tell you things.
We wound up in the underground. I
found us huddled near
a vending machine, drinking
from the same cup of coffee,
laughing at a photograph of a fat man
wearing a tu-tu on the wall,
advertising cellphones.
The train approached, shrieking
into the hour, wind rushing. In
the middle of Pigalle I sat down
and cried. Down here, there are
directions. Going and Not Going.
I can’t look at where you are
only where you want to be.
My eyes won’t split us
in two, but my body knows
how distance feels.
One minute you’re standing
in the rain, the edges seem to shiver
and suddenly you’re never seen again.
