Some evenings I walk through the city haze. Cold and foggy short winter days.
Watching people smile as they weave through the maze
of people lining the sidewalks waiting to get into clubs and bars.
Street performers all playing their guitars.
And I think of you.
I think of the tiny railroad tracks of your fingers interlaced with mine.
I think of how your hearts would fog my windows. That the windows were windows on my heart.
I never thought I’d miss you breathing,
Turns out that was the best part.
Maybe if I was lost on a walk too long,
a clumsy attempt at a foggy start.
How to erase your condensation,
finger sculptures, from a surface on which they will never depart?