since i met you, i can’t hear music
without thinking of you.
like a record
spinning at just a half step slower,
we see, we hear, we feel
just a bit more
as if we can change the tempo of
with a glass of liquid.
we came to each other
on all days of the week:
saturdays at the music hall –
wednesdays during the world cup –
mondays in my suburb, at the white kitchen table –
sundays at the ramen shop in Tamana,
thursdays, too, at quiet vintage cafés.
midnights at your favorite bar.
our orbits intersecting, correctly.
all the cobblestone streets we walked,
hands in pockets – pockets in hand
or on a shelf in a Boston record store.
i’ll say goodbye and not look back.
i’ll hold my breath
when i cross the bridge alone.