Passerby

Static sound destroying the
dropping of eaves.
A tone, still heard,
welcoming and warm;
wishing my name to be spoken
through those lips, to be conjured
with the thoughts of love.

How can we meet in the
“real world” when I am so
filled with apprehension?
Speaking would be
such an easy thing, but
I tense at the thought.

Her smile, professional.
Her wish of a good day disingenuous
as I am just
another face passing through;
soon to be forgotten by
work more pressing.

The bell above the door rings
to signal my exit; an escape to
wait another moon’s passing
for these fanciful thoughts.
Awaiting the day either
I work up the courage, or
she is no longer there.

by Erik Shinker