Perhaps she knows I’m unsure
about whether to hug with two arms
or one. That it would be nice
to still talk about things – when I poured her
a cup of tea and said to wait a few minutes
for the leaves to infuse, she held out
a light palm: olive; and what we don’t remember –
the meanings of conversation, a different island,
the laptop screen carelessly open.
Leaning against a lamppost,
I watch her turn into the half-lit street.
The red bulbs of taxis glow in spaces
where the night has come to an end;
lines of well dressed twenty-somethings
shuffle on. I watch her go
down and down until she begins to flicker,
the road tied into her hair, until she
is small enough to hold in my fingers.