We met at the movies,
on benches in books,
on dates under umbrellas.
They hunted me home,
chased me up the stairs,
sat in waiting at my piano.
Now they wrap around the architecture of the city
to stay close,
floating up to balconies,
through glass and noise.
They travel with me, these stubborn things,
on trains tumbling to larger places and back.
These are the ones that stuck
the dear and the sad
theyâre here for now
by my bed at night
while the others,
they all keep running,
and I donât even know to miss them.