I Sat Down and Cried at The Pigalle Metro Stop

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.

First appeared in the Fall 2018 inaugural issue of Periphery (Peripheries) Journal at Harvard University Center for World Religions.

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