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I thought I saw you the other day,
you were looking at a window display.

You twisted a curly, black lock 'round your finger,
carefully I walked closer and watched you linger.

I thought I saw you, for that raven mane,
in its glorious messiness seemed so much the same:
as the mane I once bathed my face in;
as the mane whose smell made my head spin;
as the mane I closed my eyes and dreamed dreams in.

I thought I saw you the other day,
I seemed to catch two green eyes looking away.

Reflecting off innocent glass, still fiery,
scanning the trinkets and boxes admiringly.

I thought I saw you, for you looked away,
the way you used to when I'd hear you say:
you don't know what makes me happy.
I can't stand it when you stick right next to me,
and one day I'll go somewhere you'll never find me.

I thought I saw you the other day,
a mere two blocks from where we used to stay.

But my heartstrings, this time never tugged,
and in my mind, no butterfly illusions of love.

Then I knew it wasn't you, when I heard my name.
And rather than fluttering, and confusion and pain:
I felt like the creature that loses its fear for the flame.
I felt time and distance, and a very awkward sense,
that somehow you closed something, which I haven't opened since.

Learn more about this author, Alvaro Ramos.
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