this charade
i remember,
while trying to
hold bridges with straw
tacked together by pins
& needles. i was wearing
grey & red. you were wearing
black, though i have felt myself
changing this detail as the fabric
of memory becomes threadbare. but this
i know: when i turned around, you were
no longer lingering, staring. instead
headed west, where rivers of gold
always flow.
i ended this game
while clad in blue
& black. you were wearing
your peasant's coat & jeans
& talking fabulous things about
barcelona & political agendas. oh,
that made me melt, that made me want
to scream. you would turn back to examine
my dancer's shoes from which
it seems, you would
recognise me.
weeks later i passed you in the street;
you were sitting down, stretching to show
the length of your limbs. i was a mess.
for some reason we made eye contact,
you tilted your head.
you tilted your head
& softened your smile
& stared.
some days when i'm sitting at my desk,
dreaming or scribbling in my notepad,
i think back & convince myself these gestures
were dreamed up one woeful night,
except it struck me, even then,
how obviously intrigued
you were.
((how, in return, your every movement was a point of obsession for me.))
i treated you coldly from that point forward;
but i died a little everytime i felt you noticing me.