i can see our bicycles chained up outside together, links twisted around bars and keys left in the grass with a forgetful rush that seems reminiscent of high school sex at three in the morning. that old gas lamp post which hides on my street under those wolseley trees warms their frames as we warm ours and i think that we may both pray for closeness but i could never ask and you would never demand it, although i wish you would and perhaps you wish i could, but i simply couldn't. i saw your shoes resting on top of mine just barely but barely was enough to make me sigh, and i wonder what your thoughts are made of between sips of beer that taste like wine when your lips smile at mine from across the table. fog and history and rain in the mornings, french subtitled films in the afternoons and thunder at night and i love the way you dance. and it's odd that i can think of you after missing someone else for so long (well that was a lot of drinking). but i don't know you and wouldn't claim to, and i can't say more than a hello before time stops and i wish we could spend it sleeping close close close. i'll drink heatburnin cups of late night regrets because the day i saw you walking up those stairs, when he said 'oh you'll like her she smiles like the sun and talks with a bit of a whisper' is a day i knew i'd never ever have that courage to say anything more than a hi and goodbye to you.
