You must have returned, must be
living, even now, within the city walls,
in some borough that I do not visit.
I suspect that you frequent some of the same
shops that I do,
handle some of the same
fruit, to test its firmness,
judge its conviction.
It is Summer, and we should not
meet while the sun is so high.
My palms would be salty and wet from sweat,
your eyes would be pressed nearly shut.
Neither of us own sunglasses;
I doubt we would recognize each other.
Better we keep to our own paths,
and not stray – knowing that we might
catch a glimpse, a hand, a curl, a smile,
and feel the ruin of dying cities
spreading across our skin.