If it's no problem,
please join me.
There's a city outside in the rain.
In the side of an archive coffee shop,
I saw you reading, leaning
-- more like pressing the world away
-- fully removed.

After the shop closed three years later
the weather changed. In the dry dust
the sun burned on the blacked out window,
your face curved more like the sword,
less like the first observed orange light
of hope on the edge of West horizons.
Where are you but in the glass?
But in the mud puddle's flipped throwback?