We can look at each other as if from high apartment block widows. A deep and shadowed city. Sirens echoing off concrete and glass. You open your window to water plants, maybe the noise helps you edit. I open my window to breathe, maybe the street helps me listen.
We can look at each other. First, ashamed to be caught. Then recognition. Then surprise. We know each other. We start with cliches. What’s a boy like you doing in a place like this? Time has been kind. Old souls. Serendipity. Can you meet me in the middle?
We can look. We can wait until we really see — until we swap spaces. When we look at ourselves looking back at someone we love.
We can hold it until it burns, and then we can set it down to cool on the fire escape and go and eat our breakfasts.