His face
Is partially obscured
by shadows
(and memory)
cast across
in horizontal lines
sliding across
the bridge of his nose,
flowing unevenly
over the jagged scars
underneath his eyes.

It's night outside,
(So dark, so dark)
and she wonders what he's doing here.

“Good evening,” he says, because,
if anything,
he's always been polite.

“Hello,” she says,
(what?)
tilting her chin up to him.

It's been a long time since she last spoke to him.
Even longer since she last saw him,
even in dreams,
and she's been over him for a while,
but self control was never her strong point.

He looks different-
(Oh God, he is different)
-ly at her now.

“I was in the neighborhood.”
His voice is lower. Deeper.

(Different.)

“Me too,” she jokes,
because she lives here
just like she always has
and he knows that.

His hard eyes glitter
and she thinks that maybe,
just maybe
(maybe not)
he knows why he's here.
Knows what has happened.

(Do you know? Do you? Who I am?)

He pauses,
and she
(here now)
waits patiently for him.
She's been waiting for a while now.

“Good night,” he says,
because he's leaving now
and he's always been polite,
even before the accident.

“Good-bye,” she says,
because she can't
stop him leaving now
and, at least,
he's still polite.

She thinks,
(It's all right. Smile, all right,)
and thinks.
because it's not every day
he's sane enough
to see her.

Know her,
(Love)
her.