In the rooms where you are...

To The Lady on the Train,

I do not know the rooms in which you now move. 

I do not know the walls, the stairs, the floors, nor the slant of your roof. I cannot imagine where you are. 

I cannot picture you at any table or resting on any couch. I cannot place you in a beam of slanted light coming in from your window. The where you are now is not the place where I see you when I think of you. 

The rooms where I know you are in the past. 

I see you in a carpeted basement, sleepy and content and beautiful.

I see you in a house of wood and stained glass and wonder, your eyes shining.

I see you in dim room upon a wooden bed, your fingers curled around the slats and a sigh escaping. 

I see you in an office lined with the tokens and trinkets of your life and I wonder if you still do that.

And I can still see you walking down a green carpeted hallway, black slacks, white blouse, and the twirling of keys on a lanyard and you not noticing me noticing you.

Though I do not now know your rooms, I do know your eyes. And I know the wildness of your hair and the smoothness of your cheeks. I do know the strength and straightness of your back, and I know the round and sway of your walk. I know your voice at my ear and the way it makes my heart pound.

I do not know the rooms in which you now move but for all the rooms that you take up in me.

The Man in the Station