Streetlights glide past on a Tuesday night,
so alone, and the air,
cold wet.
Your faces form a phase like
a string of pearls,
occurrences distributed in space,
Watching mournful over the
deserted pedestrian causeways
eliciting sonderous ghosts,
Leaving voicemails
for romances that never happened.
And selfishly, I presume
a perspective,
Or really, I dream up of a
place to meet you,
like an alleyway (I am a **** in this instance),
Or the leftovers of a wedding
eagerly awaiting the clean-up crew.