I saw a gentleman in a three piece suit, his top button no longer suffocating all the words he had been saving for her in the past 9 hours.
cradling a bouquet of daisies.
He was tiptoeing up the brownstone’s entry on the north side of 94th street nearly holding his breath in anticipation to pour out all those hours of funny anecdotes only she would laugh at and adoration he only knew how to speak into strands of hair that whispered back like her’s.
He vanished into their home like the most gratifying magic trick.
If that man had been you,
that bouquet tiger lilies,
that stairway my address,
this evening would be the most real kind of dream.
Even if today was too chilly for spring, or this morning came before I even flavored sleep, or the fridge has been echoing for weeks,
I would have no need for any wishes.
The click of the unlock, the thump of your shoes stripped at the door, the flowers in a vase on our kitchen table would make for a rich man’s feast.
The taste of all I’d ever hoped for when we were introduced as strangers all those months ago.
By this time we have stopped remembering what it feels like to make the bed alone, what it looks like to set a dinner table for one, what an apartment smells like without the bloom of a tuesday night.
Let’s make a deal.
You start looking for orange tiger lilies.
I’ll find a recipe for dinner.
We’ll meet at our stoop.
I promise to wait until you get here.
Hurry home.
