I met You in a quiet train station.
Silent as the newborn sun;
quiet like a patch of breath.
Your heartbeat filled my ears till
my temples became throbbing gongs.
I have seen You before,
in the lounge on the 96th floor,
or lost in the New England hills.
But tonight I was reminded.
We wandered the Institute
with its checkered tile floors and rouge lockers,
following the sound of singing throats
until we found You.
I saw You again outside the ice cream shop.
Your hand held a poor paper cup that rattled
as the snow fell into it.