Just Below…

At the Unurban Cafe,

    the tea tastes like memory,

and the floorboards

   are made of yesterday’s promises.

Here we stand,

   ankles deep in the gold of the afternoon,

basking in sunlight that feels

  Like a hand on a fevered forehead.

We are heavy with the things 

   we forget to name

the way your shadow tucks itself into mine,

the quiet gravity of a shared breath.

Then the sky bruises into indigo.

In moonlight, we are silver ghosts

    moving through a dream of water,

     anchored only by the pulse in our wrists.

Below the starlight,

   We are finally small enough to be honest.

There is an actual architecture to the space       

    between us…

a bridge built of all that and riches

     not the kind you clink in a pocket,

but the kind that pours from each other

     like honey from a jar left in the sun.

Our Goodwill that prevails is a shy animal.

    It is always there, hiding in 

the marrow of the bone,

    sometimes not seen

because we are looking for lightning

   when we should be looking

    for the glow of a moth’s wing.

But it is there anyways,

    a silent witness to our survival.

It expresses itself in art,

    in the jagged lines

of a heart trying to explain

   its shape in love

 Oh how often,

We have memorized your silence in song,

   the vibration that remains after 

the singers have left the room.

Tomorrow night,

   the cafe will fold back into the earth.

The sugar cubes will turn back into salt

    and the walls into mist.

Go there. Sit among the echoes.

Please catch us before we disappear for   

    another week

this fleeting divinity, 

    this inheritance of kindness,

this ghost-light we only learn to see

   once the room goes dark.

Everything we sing to you, 

      we sing for you.