Proof that I was Listening

“She’s too pretty for him
and he’s too nice for her”
you tell me as we stand behind
the espresso machine, people-watching.

You start to dance,
a little sway back and forth,
a swing of your arms,
singing Brown Eyed Girl
into a sharpie-microphone.

You tell me your dream,
buying a Volkswagen Bus,
driving across the country
as a mobile library
lending out the writings of Wilde.

“What do you like about Watercolor?” I ask,
you tell me “it’s a loose medium.”

Later, as I washed away the sharpie
you wrote on my arm, I saw myself
in the ink, mixed with water in the drain,
taking your hand in mine;
I felt the pressure of our palms pressed together.