You waited at the station entrance.
I was late. My hair had turned gray
but there you were, all the snow gone,
all the leaves blown, the leopard sun
having leapt across a life never lived.
My gaze falls on your black eyelashes,
the black silk folds of your dress.
We mourn the same self as we walk
beneath the tracks of falling stars,
gone before we see them.
-- from the current issue of The Paris Review
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