I followed you into the bookstore on Fifth Avenue,

your strawberry hair falling onto your shoulders when the door closed

and the frosty winds were left outside.

You pulled off the thick sleeves of your anorak and

hung it on the coat rack at the entrance,

revealing the sweater in which

turquoise polka-dots decorated its collar.

Down the isle of historical novels you wandered,

your soft fingers tracing the ends of the shelves,

your eyes scanning the titles

through a gorgeous shade of electric blue.

From behind a newspaper I watched you,

my body slowly slipping underneath the table

where messages had been etched deep into the mahogany surface

from all the times I was too nervous to approach you.

Say hello to her.

I frowned, remembering my old shy self

when we were just silently in love

passing notes through the bookmarks of our favorite poetry book

in which we took turns checking in and out of the library.

But that was two years ago

and

I miss the old us.