Two Lines

I went down thirty floors
and fifteen years.

In the coffee shop, a young woman
was arguing with her mother
with all the fury of being alive.
She wore winter on her shoulders,
her hair refusing to behave.

Then you appeared:
a blue towel.
Two lines.
A crack running through the mirror.

I was nineteen,
and fear already knew my name.

I only know I couldn't.
And you never had a name.

What would you have been like?

One minute passes.
Then another.

—Forgive me.

The light changes.
And I always return
to the things that exist.