In the morning I can always find you on the other side of the bed.
You curl up amid the valley’s of blankets.
You elaborate on the dreams I haven’t dreamt
in which we’ve never even met
but as strangers
sit beside one another in a movie theater, both alone.
It is a strange thing to enter a theater by oneself
but we are both capable of it
independant as we know each other to be.
And as we watch a movie, not knowing the other,
about a man who has it good with a woman he loves
but drives her away by his indifference.
Then there is a comedic friend who
knows both the characters and brings them
together with one last final hurray in which
a grave is desecrated and a hot air balloon
crash lands in Wales.
All very tidy ending, really.
And that’s when I get up to leave
and you do to and the seat
on my right is empty
and the seat to your left is empty
and I turn to you or you turn to me
and one of us says, though now we
debate who actually said it,
“That was a nice first date,” and we both laugh and leave
and think we know what’s coming, but we don’t.
And to this day, I keep guessing.
Winter Station 