If it's no problem,
please join me.
There's a city outside in the rain.
In the side of an archive coffee shop,
I saw you reading, leaning
-- more like pressing the world away
-- fully removed.

After the shop closed three years later
the weather changed. In the dry dust
the sun burned on the blacked out window,
your face curved more like the sword,
less like the first observed orange light
of hope on the edge of West horizons.
Where are you but in the glass?
But in the mud puddle's flipped throwback?

Wherever you look she is there, waiting;
beautiful and cold as she is,
for someone to entertain her.

When the sleepy skies yawn away and
his golden locks take the podium,
he can’t help but notice only her.

He invites to dance, so she lifts her skirts high
and puts her transparent hand in his and
together they dance their crystal waltz.

He might entertain her only for a while,
because she will soon perish from something
magically beautiful to just another puddle.*

But despite knowing this, she does not mind at all.