on the train to work, it was a slow and quiet commute. i think i left earlier than usual. the train was swaying and it was seemingly in time with the soft music i was listening to. i was still groggy and sleep was still hovering over me. i watched from the very front of the car as the few standing commuters ebbed and swayed with the motion of the car. in dream states we all were. i let my eyes drop a little and when i looked, i swear there was you, though, an impossibility, i swore it was you. but it was not you. it was no one but the lingering dreams, residual desires and the slight coincidence of NYC playing tricks on my eyes.
it doesn’t matter any more. it shouldn’t but. there’s the but. i read things, i see things. i remember the code. now i start to feel that there is a code there. a code no longer meant for me. it never was, a language built on guile. playing tricks on the house of secrets. the dance of the subway in the quiet of the early morning commute. playing tricks on the eyes, hearts, knees and nose.