You live in a scrap heap of imaginary lives.
You’ve always been alone,
But the worn-out boots by the door are somebody else’s size.
You’re a piano-player’s daydream, you smell like
Sad songs and solitaire.
And one night,
you walked across the room-
you draped your jacket on my empty chair.
You’re a story in a book I left in a bus.
A few pages more and I might have reached you.