the ones you wore when we were

the rooftop is open to the moon. radiators hang like palm trees over every other table so we sit outside in the shadow of the skyline. the few buildings tall enough to scrape the sky look silly amidst more modest friends. from this distance it's hard to tell which ones are used for what. but it doesn't really matter. what really can from such a distance?

across the table a stranger twirls his hair like I would as a child. sangria and ambiguity for two. he talks about returning from another world to feel alien in his own home. I try to understand and think I can a little, thinking of chapters closed in transit between one life and another. we laugh about the city and being the way we are / timid / proud / precious in the face of our decay. he seems nice enough and we seem to enjoy our time under the radiators. but he has your nose and hair and his glasses look too much like the ones you wore when we were for a moment. if I look too close his eyes might also belong to you. he wants to find something to eat. I want to hear you say my name again.

after dinner we decide to surrender to the cold. I leave him waiting for the tram. do you remember how it felt to lose and win each other back between our planes and trains? you kissed me at the station for both of our goodbyes. I ride down streets you'll never see and wonder when you last thought of me.