sipping coffee on a Tuesday afternoon,
the roasting smell rests against your hoodie,
it’s a normal day, an average beverage
and eventually – a simple sundown to come
as time trickles bluer, parallels permeate through your thoughts –
and she holds your hand, somewhere else across the timeline,
maybe Millenium Park, a distorted reflection of you two amidst hundreds of others
or on the High Line, your elongated shadows racing ahead of you,
and hundreds of you in Versailles, the Hall of Mirrors.
here, now, it feels okay
you know it’ll never quite feel like home,
but for now, it’s simple enough, linear.