I saw you on the bus today.
I was absolutely delighted to catch sight of your brown hair cascading down your back. I watched in reverie as you pushed a strand behind your ear in order to better see your book.
I couldn’t help myself. I got off at your stop.
You didn’t see me, but I walked just behind you, pretending that a decade had somehow vanished and we were once again our lovely, delicate, teenage selves. Anne and Sylvia. Victoria and Caitlin. Kate and Milly.
As we walked, your fingers drifted through the late summer breeze, flowing the air as they had once danced over the piano keys.
It was a moment of magic.
But those were not uncommon when I was with you.
Then you turned your head
and the moment was broken.
The profile a little off. The nose a bit too long. The lips too full.
You’d think after a dozen years I’d remember you’re gone, but somehow I still hope to see you work your magic and find your way back to me..