You were reading A Lover's Discourse on the J and didn't look up. I wanted to be the sentence that made you.

16th and Mission, gold hour. You laughed at something I couldn't hear and I've been trying to hear it since.

We reached for the same book at the shop on Valencia. You let me have it. I should have let you keep me.

You gave me your seat on the 22 and I've been standing ever since.

Ocean Beach, the fog came in and you didn't leave. Neither did I. We just never spoke.

You hummed something in line at the coffee place and I've been humming it wrong for a week.

Powell platform — paint on your hands, a book under your arm. I got on the wrong train on purpose.

You told the bartender you were leaving the city. I wanted to say don't. I ordered another instead.

We danced near each other, not together, at that warehouse thing. The whole room between us and none of it.

You cried a little at the film and pretended not to. So did I. Two rows apart.

You lent me a lighter outside and kept talking like we'd already met. Maybe in another life we had.

Rainy Tuesday, you shared your umbrella to the train and then the crowd took you.

You were sketching strangers at Dolores. I hope I was one of them. I keep looking for my own face.

Last train — you fell asleep on no one's shoulder. I wanted it to be mine.

You said "after you" and held the door and I have thought about it more than I'll admit.

We matched eyes across the laundromat. Your cycle ended first. I let mine run twice.

You asked if the seat was taken. It wasn't. It still isn't.

Green line, you gave up your umbrella to a stranger and got soaked. I fell for a person I'll never find.

You read the whole ride and dog-eared a page near the end. I wanted to be the part you couldn't put down.

You tipped the busker everything in your pocket and walked off fast so no one would see. I saw.

Corner table, you wrote in a notebook and covered it when the waiter came. I hope some of it was hope.

You held the elevator with your foot and we didn't speak the whole way down. Eleven floors of almost.

You danced alone at the edge of the crowd like the song was only playing for you. It should have been for us.

You let the whole crosswalk go first and waited for the next light. I waited too, one corner over.

You bought flowers and gave half of them to the cashier. I've been trying to be worth the other half.

You fed a stray on the fire escape and talked to it low. I wanted to be spoken to like that.

Foggy morning, you ran into the water and I stayed on the sand being a coward about everything.

You spelled your order out loud so the barista would get the name right. I've been saying it since.

You gave me directions I didn't need and I followed them anyway just to walk a little longer.

Closing time, you helped stack the chairs without being asked and slipped out before the thank you.

to wait for how long tank hill, i learned still growing around me while i wait to say the words hawks circling above