I looked down upon the humdrum of my life and thought of you.

I looked at the towers of red-brick and mortar,
Which stood outside my window,
And the cracks that pervaded their foundations,
And the stairs where we used to sit in the evening,
Lit up by light of fireflies suspended on metal beams,

And the roses in my garden that grew against iron gates,
And weeds that grew up through the cracks in the sidewalk.

I looked on the books that lay scattered across the floor of my room,
Those I’d never read, the ones I’d sworn that I’d pick  up,
And those I’d read so often that even now their pages
Turned with a well-worn fold, as if on hinges.
The ones I’d quote verbatim in order that I might
See a blush run across your face.

I looked upon the thoughts that flickered about my mind,
Watching them as they raced to and fro,
Darting every which way with solutions or conundrums in hand,
And thought of you.
I looked at the specific and the general,
The frighteningly absurd and the congenially memorable,
And all of things which bore your semblance and all those things
Doubtless which were foreign to me,

And in each thing you drew closer to me,
In such a way that your eyes shone brightly
And the words you had spoken to me felt just as heavy as they once did,
Falling upon me and enveloping me in their caress,
Running soft-tipped fingers around my heart,
Or washing over my soul as waves do.

I looked on each thing that I had known, those things I now know, and those things
I will come to know,
And in each of them you are.

And then I looked at myself,
And in myself,
I saw you.