She walks down the damp lane,
Balancing her steps and her thoughts,
That threaten to slip down the mossy path
And unravel body parts that hold things together.
There are snatches of rain falling
Through the open spaces between branches
And on the windshields of bright shiny cars,
Smudging the pieces of her identity
Written on the white pages of the big drawing book,
Lying vacantly in the bag on her back.
She sees him at the corner,
Standing on the steps,
Waiting for her on the terrace,
Dry in the pouring rain.
“How did you manage that?” She asks.
“Imagination.” He replies.
She sits by the window
As thunder and lightning
Rip through the darkness of midnight.
A cold wind pushes her,
As she breathes a familiar smell
Of hot and damp mornings in a small room,
And relives each word
Of long, intricately woven conversations with him.
She watches as he scribbles on her writing pad,
As he picks up the phone to take a picture,
As his eyes pore into her from a distance.
He walks over and touches her nose;
She soaks her skin into his soft fingers,
And looks down, only to find a smooth, black screen.
“What do you see?” He had asked.
How could she tell him
That what she saw was reality,
Perceived with another mind.