We passed each other near the Arch
last Tuesday, during the heatwave of January
when Apollo decided to bring the sun a little closer
for a few days.
Almost 11 a.m., you had brown hair
no jacket, just a striped sweater.
I was wearing a cherry-colored coat, unzipped.
It was hot but you were very, very cool.
We met at a party in December
I wasn't sure if you remembered me, but
you gave me an unexpected smile
and I wish we stopped to chat.
The next day
the sun was just a dimple in the gray sky.
Up in the stacks of the library
during reading week last quarter,
I piled up some heavy books to rest my computer on
so I could do my work standing up.
tales of water spirits and French economics textbooks.
We made eye contact more times than I can count.
There was no reason for you to walk by me on your way out
but you did.
You probably didn't realize that
in the black border of my laptop
I caught the reflection of you looking back at me.
Compelled by my friend, I raced out toward the elevators
to see if I could catch you, but
like magnets colliding
the doors shut and
you were gone.
If you remember me in the same way,
If we switched bodies and you would do the same thing,
tell me the two words written on the back of my shirt
so I know it's you.
We had never met, apparently,
until we were introduced by a friend
in the middle of Norbucks.
You roused in me
memories of someone I
must have known years ago, but
like a vagabond, I cannot find a place for you.
A quick introduction
turned into hours of feeling so close
I believe that I have
always known you.
I am writing this because I have been too afraid to approach you since then.
If I type these words specifically for you
and you happen to see them
does that mean it's fate?