UNCROSSING

To chance — 

which has always objected
to being called chance.

Last night, walking home,

I saw a woman
cross the road some distance ahead.

I watched her walk.

I liked the ease of it.
The quiet certainty.
As though she trusted
that the world
would meet her halfway.

I paused
to witness the moment.

And then,
for reasons that had nothing to do with her,

I thought of you.

I wondered
whether this is how memory works — 

not as recollection,

but as recognition.

The world keeps introducing itself

until suddenly

it is speaking
in someone else’s voice.

I liked knowing
that if our paths
were supposed to cross,

they would.

No intervention.

No acceleration.

Fate, I have found,
dislikes being chased.

It prefers timing.

It rewards trust.

Our paths did cross.

Which sounds temporary.

But isn’t.

Two lives can meet
for only a moment

and remain altered
by the meeting.

They cannot uncross.

They can separate.

They can continue
towards different horizons.

They can decide
it meant nothing.

But they cannot return
to the world before.

So perhaps
the only real question

is not whether we meet.

That has already happened.

It is what we become

because we did.

I could prepare.

Find the right words.

Become someone
more interesting.

More certain.

More impressive.

Instead,

I want to make every mistake.

Say too much.

Misread a silence.

Ask too early.

Laugh at the wrong moment.

Be seen trying.

Until performance
has exhausted itself.

Until nothing remains

except

the impossible relief

of being known

exactly

as I am.

J.T.