The corner of the tavern is where he sat
Day after day until curiosity smothered the deep sorrows in my heart
And raised its head to acknowledge his presence where it was at.
It might have been his artist’s fingers
Or the deep pools of his eyes that reflected my own troubles,
Or those lips that hadn’t stretched in a smile for far too long.
Without preamble, without invitations, and without waiting
Wordlessly, I sat beside him and sipped my wine,
As he stared and stared through the golden elixir resting in his glass,
Through sidelong glances I examined those fingers brown,
Wishing the knots of my hair felt what his cigar did now,
Even as the nape of my neck prickled, daring to wish to be held as his drink.
Much too long I waited, ere I asked, Where do you come from
What ails you that you’ve arrived here to fix
Unblinking, he uttered those words, the words I knew that bound us.
For he said, I carry in my backpack, the dreams you’ve dreamed,
Every star you’ve wished on and the tears you’ve drowned and buried,
In searching for you, I’ve wandered here, and you to me, for you too know.
And I did, though not a moment ago did it come to me,
But the bag he carried glittered with fallen stars and my broken dreams
Then we knew how the air swirled around us, with the perfume of need.