It’s been five hard months
of grey skies and late buses,
endless nights and entropic cold,
but winter is starting to unravel,
and I can see the first corner of spring.
I step out into the meltwater
to meet you at the university,
where I always get lost and
have to be found, like I’m five years old
and wandering off in Eaton’s.
Twenty-eight minutes and a
sheepish phone call later you find me
next to a wall of posters advertising
shitty rooms for rent and shows
for shitty bands. You wave. I blush.
We go out for Japanese
and I feel conspicuously ignorant, follow
your lead when you take off your shoes.
My black boots, parallel, immense
beside your polka-dot sneakers.
A bell rings. We're served green tea
in tiny handleless cups. I watch
the steam rise from yours, watch you
purse your lips and blow it away.
I look into my own cup, down to the leaves.
You’re good with chopsticks,
and I follow your hands, trying in vain
to copy you. Takes practice,
you say. I should live so long,
I say, gratified when you laugh.
We drink our tea, talk too late, leave
in a rush. I walk you to your car and say
good night. A second later
you kiss me on the mouth, quick
and soft and warm, like spring.
That night on the train, I watch
the city go by in streaks of red
orange and white, and think
of empty shoes and tea leaves
and the small, sure movements of your hands.