It’s eight past midnight.
I kiss a sip, of my ginger chai, off that steaming cup.
As I place the cup on the window sill,
I notice the pitch-black sky through the droplet-laden window
and I am reminded of that starlit sky of somewhere close to L.A.
and of me tracing your silhouette for the first time, that night,
as if allowing my subconscious to frame it,
so as to etch it neatly in my dreams, if ever.
We never spoke before that
and I am reminded of listening to you, that night,
so intently, honestly more to the sound of the words you spoke,
as if I was trying to get my mind acquainted to your voice,
for it to converse with me, later, on my late-night strolls
down the aimless streets of New York.
Now it was the time to return,
and I am reminded of driving back slower than usual,
even on that deserted road,
for I wanted to extend the time of that night, to soak a bit more of you,
and for some reason my mind chose to let me believe that
that had something to do with the speed of the car; silly me.
We don’t talk often,
but here we are,
at way past midnight
conversing under the stars, like that night, punctuating each other’s silences.