Nearing your apartment, I cross the idle railroad at a quarter ‘till 4:00.
Peak heat clings clothes to your form. Your back is turned, carriage always postured –
trained that way from dancing – never hinting. Recalescent.
Leaving, drapes ripple with the closing door, and we share the sidewalk where
the sun is humming. Rose petals: velvet texture.
Your lips, your skin.
You lead us to water, and say that you will turn back if people are present. No one, so we stay.
We toe and foot the river, and it’s running south, up hill, but I must have been turned around
somewhere. You’re looking away, and to my insecurities it’s an omen. I think back to looking up
across the train tracks to your apartment window; thin white drapes propped open on one side.
I had imagined your hand being responsible – imagined
you were looking out, waiting.