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.