the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love

at last (entre nous)

I was walking with the flow of the Friday night rush hour when I saw you.

Sitting alone, in a café window at the corner of 33rd and 8th, you gazed lonely, almost longingly, out the glass. You looked empty as if you were waiting for someone,
someone who you were hoping would at last
fill the void.

Alas, there was no sign in your sad eyes that you actually expected to be fulfilled.

In a new brave world shared solely entre nous, I am certain I held you,
that is your gaze, for a moment, if not for two, after I recognized you
from your posted picture
and looked back over my shoulder, spurned by yearning to be a little bit bolder,
for a second attempt to hook this passing fancy into some sudden fantastic crook of reality where you come running after me.

It was a silly notion, but in the midst of this scurrying ocean of people I did not care, for I had nothing to lose
knowing I really did not have anything to gain in the first place.

So, as these tingling and lingering woes tend to go, albeit I do not know your name,
I know there was a flash of intimacy shared between us, a fleeting moment where lost souls merge, if only for a second of intense satisfaction, because we knew then that at last something meaningful might have been.

the art of living the art of living the beginning the art of love the art of love

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