It will probably be winter.
You will probably be wearing a black shirt.
I will probably be waiting in line for something.
The snow will be gray. The streets melting. The air decembering.
I will probably stare. You will probably notice.
I will imagine myself wearing Max's wolf suit.
You will be anywhere but within my gaze.
I will probably step out of line.
Maybe I'll discover you by a poster of Yuri Gagarin.
Maybe I'll catch you through a beige bookshelf.
Maybe you'll kineticize like Stef.
Maybe your eyes will searchaskopen like Gretchen.
Maybe you'll screamlaughcrumble like Brooke.
Maybe you'll stand even smaller than you are like Em. In a winter doorframe. In a teardrop of fuzzied focus.
Maybe that's how I'll recognize you.
There's probably a party this weekend at a house I've never been to.
It will be black and yellow and warm and hot and black then orange.
I will be standing on the porch. You will have been followed there.
Maybe the Temper Trap will start playing.
I won't know how to dance to it.
You probably won't either.
Maybe that constant beat isn't a heart.
Maybe it's my feet. Maybe it has been the whole time.
Maybe my feet have been moving me here from the beginning.
Maybe for no reason.
Maybe your shoes will remind me of water.
You will probably walk back inside.
I will probably stand in the cold.
Maybe this is the beginning of the longgame.
Maybe I can taste the salt of the wood beneath my feet.
Maybe it's summer.
Maybe I'm six months early.
Maybe I'm six months too late.
