unfinished

symphony concert, the mid-row
seat I approach by habit
from the sympathetic side

I’m conscious of a woman, seated
to my right, never looking my way,
but perfumed, like summer in a soap,
just enough to get me interested

I see her in profile, if I turn my head,
which I never do – we’ve not known
each other for four seasons now

we sit still, emotionless,
connecting through the music
a greeting would freeze us – and free us

 

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