Though I know her well,
she hasn’t seen me since
October, and we don’t speak.
We pretend not to see each other.
I keep typing. She gets coffee–
walks on to the elevator
cherishing the warm prayer
in her hands.
When she’s gone
(lifted to the land where everyone lives when they are not in front of me),
I feel like a feather
falling from the bird.
It’s not that I believe we won’t speak again.
I know we will.
But I know too
that the words will drip with formality,
that uncertainty will stop-start us in mid-sentence,
make us trample each other’s thoughts with the awkward eagerness of two people who just want things to be like they were.
And I know they never will be.