Maybe he had a handshake
that felt like we’d met
somewhere before,
or a face I’d seen
in a crowd once
but never forgot,
perhaps while I was waiting
for a flight at the airport,
or maybe he’d been
in front of me in the line
at Starbucks while I dallied
on my phone
and tried to pretend
I didn’t notice the sheer
breadth of his shoulders,
or how the color of his hair
reminded me
of Edgar Allan Poe’s,

But it was something,
as he took in my face
as though he were someone
who already knew me
and yet, for some reason,
wanted more,
that for a moment,
I almost felt uneasy
in my fear of his reality,
and real is what it felt like;
to be seen by someone
who wants to see,
even as the Raven sits
above the doorframe,
that I could not bring myself
to stare into his face
with the same intensity,
and so would often let my eyes drop
in admiration of his shoes
and how much they were worn.

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