two perfect strangers

Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?

Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard

from the distance of the kind words you wrote,
let us meet once at our favourite spot, nestled
on the corner of waverly place and west tenth,
so, pretending to look at the books on display,
we could smile at our reflections in the glass,
two perfect strangers to the outside world,
for now.

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