Maybe we imagined magic
where it wasn't there.
Looking back at those places we went to,
it's more ordinary than I remember it.
I wonder ―
Doesn't morning-light make everything beautiful?
then why do the roads look empty?
The red booth, faded?
Why is the terrace bland
with puddles of rain?
There's a chance I will never see you again,
and we will go on remembering this
as we remember it.
The grainy streetlight,
silhouette-trees, look in our eyes ―
Maybe we imagined magic
where it wasn't there.
But maybe there was magic
in the attempt,
all along.