The Night Was Not the Point

A car went by with it playing.

I was at the crosswalk, waiting.

By the second bar I'd sat down

on the bench without deciding to.

The song wasn't chosen—it was just on

that night, coming from a laptop

on the floor because neither of us

got up to change it.

I remember the light more than anything.

A strip of it, streetlight,

coming through the gap

where the curtain didn't reach the sill.

And after, the not-talking.

Not bad silence. The kind

where two people are each deciding

separately what it meant,

and the deciding takes a while,

and the sheets on your side were still warm

and mine were cooling.

The song faded down the block.

I sat on the bench until

I couldn't hear it.

I missed two lights.

I don't know what I was hoping

would happen if I just

kept sitting there.