Postcards from an Admirer

(En route to London by train; English countryside view, in the rain.)

Maybe it was just a moment.

Perhaps it was, in truth, over in a breath.

Then again, I wouldn’t let the air out of my lungs for fear of

disrupting the beauty.

Maybe it meant nothing.

It could have been my imagination.

Then again, you didn’t look away. You held your breath

captive within broad lungs.

Was it for fear of your long exhale filling

the sails that would separate us,

recreating the distance of normal life like an ocean’s vastness?

Hold your breath, I pray, and let’s drift.