I saw you the other day,
in a car that resembles the likeness
of the taxi you last rode away in.

I gave away
an impulsive smile
and a half-hearted wave,

as if we were old friends
who'd decided keeping calendars
was a messy business,
as if you hadn't been carried away
in the flooding of the East Coast,

as if you would see me,
and be relieved.

Maybe, if you had,
you would have pulled over
and reminisced

about the Thursday nights
we dressed in silk skins
rented for our five-hour excursions
into the city;

But then would come the next morning disappointment,
over the rim of your coffee cup,
from a thoughtful once-over
of the person I became on those nights

that was still, regrettably,
dreaming on your side of the bed.

So you could have not seen me
(on purpose)
as you've always done.