Spring

It’s been five hard months
of grey skies and late buses,
endless nights and entropic cold,
but winter is starting to unravel.
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 again
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 and I blush.

We go out for Japanese
and I feel conspicuously ignorant, follow
your lead when you take off your shoes.
My black boots sit monolithic
next to your polka-dot sneakers.

A bell rings. We're served green tea
in two 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. Don’t know if I’ll live that long,
I say, gratified when you laugh.

We talk too long, too late, leave
in a rush. I walk you to your car and say
good-bye. 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 and orange and white, and think
of empty shoes and tea leaves
and the small, sure movements of your hands.