“There is a version of me
on a bench that doesn’t exist,
beside someone who never arrived,
hands folded like questions without answers.
We do not speak.
Still, the silence grows roots between us.
The kind that twist around ankles,
that make it hard to stand and leave.
I do not know their name,
only that I’ve mourned them
like I mourn cities I’ve never seen
with a longing that makes no sense
and still doesn’t stop.
Somewhere in the unlived life,
we are laughing.
Here, I just keep glancing sideways
at the absence that fits too well
into the shape of a stranger.”