To The Lady on the Train,
No matter where I am or where I am going, no matter how unlikely the possibility, even if I know it to be impossible, I look hoping to catch a glimpse of you.
I scan the subway cars and the platforms already knowing that you will not be there. I watch pedestrians on the sidewalks and underground with impossible hope that you will pass by. In the lineups in food courts, I rane to see if you are already picking up your order.
I know that you will not be in any of these places. Time, changes, and the distance of a pandemic have conspired to prevent any such random encounters. Yet, I look for you.
I look for the tangle of curls pulled up into a loose bun; wild and tame. I look for the black backpack flung over the slope of a sharp shoulder. I look for the bowed head of someone in thought and the straight back, small yet strong. I look for the sway of hips and the swing of white limb, their firm roundness hinted at in their motion.
I look for slender finger grasping a book. I look for small ears and ever changing eyes. I look for the softness of your cheeks and the line of your jaw. I look for the arch of your eyebrows and the slope of your nose.
I look for you knowing that I will not find you. I look for you because I know that I will see reflections of your beauty.
I look for you because I cannot stop looking for you.
The Man in the Station
