I find you again. Some days, I find you in the crowded coffee shop. You are the man in line, stepping on my toes. A painful reminder of his presence.
I find you in my morning coffee, when the air fills with the smell of fresh brew. You linger through my caffeine addiction. You’re the bottom of my empty cup. Today, I’ll skip the refill.
Some days I find you in the rain drops. You’re the fragmented light. I take shelter under my umbrella. Yet my clothes absorb you in defiance.
Other days, I find you on the train ride home. You’re the only open seat left. But I chose to stand, anyway.
I find you in my un-watered plants. You’re the inch of growth since last week. So I’ll forget to water them.
I find you in the mirror. You’re the thinning skin covering my bones. The skin holding in all the broken pieces of me. Today, I’ll apply extra glue.
And maybe if it was a different time, if we had done things differently, said things another way, closed the window instead of opened it, I’d find you, hand in mine. And everything else, could just be as it is.