Writers Jam

the tram moved like a slow apology. you were there, or perhaps i invented you because the seats needed filling.

a blue envelope followed me home, its wax seal breathing faintly, like a creature that knew my secrets.

you left me a sentence, not a name names rot too quickly in this city.

i keep the paper between my ribs, where no one looks. if i ever finish the book i am writing, you will remember yourself. until then, we are two misplaced shadows riding the same tram, pretending we have somewhere to arrive, when all we want is each other.