It was if our tongues were made of velvet,

as the words softly spilt away.

Gently conforming to reflective silhouette,

as though a script precluded such conversation.

You gave, I took. I opened, you received.

What had been done, mistimed what could be,

and there across a street nearly well-lit,

I watched you wait at an intersection

gazing upon me as if waiting,

but I could not cross.

Different days, before such knots were tied,

the paths would intertwine upon better fortune.

Yet, this is not the now’s reckoning.

As you turned towards a walkway without sign,

I remained before that locked place,

clinging to a memory insufficent to love,

aching that it will die in infancy.