Going Down

Going down the escalator of the subway, I glanced across and saw on the escalator's partner rising up someone who looked a bit like you but with hair not so soft and clean and warm as yours brushing against mine on those rare occasions when inadvertently our foreheads neared, making me wish it to stay. We were not physical lovers and never could have been. But we were close. Moved three states away, married happily or not, you are now only a person I may hope to meet momentarily, and not really then: merely in my mind, because of what I chance to see. But I am not unhappy about this or think that I am not. Because of your hair. Because of your beautiful hair.