***
"It was early, I was late,
rushing downhill on my bike
when I saw her at the corner—
waiting, checking left, then right

Her hair dark, still shower-damp,
silky-smooth-straight in morning light,
one foot on the curb, another in the street.

I meant to brake,
but… my hands stayed, on the handlebars,
the light changed,
I passed her.

Close enough to see her,
clean hands, the pale skin,
the way she gently smiled
at something—"

***
Every morning, every evening,
I slow at that very corner,
rain or sun, never skipping,
despite the sizzling summer.

I have memorized
each crack in that pavement,
each tilt of the stop sign,
each exact angle where
the light falls, and yet,
her face loosens, then softens,
fading into no face,
only the feeling remains…

A deep longing that
burns, like sun, always.

Momentum unstoppable—
I can only slow, take a long look—
longing has outlasted
what I long for.
I do not know if I am
searching for her
or for the self
who passed her,
who chose the downhill rush,
who could not stop,
who could have stopped,
who now slows and slows,
but… never arrives.


To her