I watched from my window
while you ran by, carrying a million stolen
dreams under your arm. You were wary, hiding in the shadows
at every available opportunity, but I saw you. Every once in a great while you would flicker into my line of vision, your blond hair a silhouette in the night. The silver lining
on a the cloud that is who you are, created by the shimmering heat and a broken street light.
Occasionally I will run into you on the street by Hannah’s antiques. . . each of us walking a different direction towards nowhere, me reading the paper, or some journal, you with your head down, absorbed by some deep philosophical thought. Some pretty, shining thing. Some sort of purple imagination. . . and when I try to look, you cover it with your hand.
“It’s Mine!” you say. “My pretty thing.”
I just shake my head and continue walking.