Letter 1: to the boy with blue hair in carriage 2
Last time I saw you your hair was pink
and you’d misplaced your umbrella and my name.
I kept talking, my words bumping into each other
as you searched for both. It was the second night
of Passover and already I was sick of matzah,
missing bread, missing you. The train leaned left
as though following the ritual of last night’s Seder
and the umbrella rolled free from under your seat.
The discovery of it was somehow linked to my name-
and you spoke it as though tasting popping candy
on your tongue. I felt your shoe touch mine-
realised you were simply getting ready
to hop off at your stop. You smiled at me
as you left, looking somewhat puzzled.
The doors closed, the train shifted its weight
and something brushed against my boots again:
your umbrella. I still have it if you want it back.