The Maynard
Spring 2018

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Descension

I catch your eyes as you swiftly descend past me in the concrete
stairwell while I move up, your honey

brown irises are canals I fall into, and can’t climb out of.
You’re in such a rush I swear there are silver wings on the heels

of your grey canvas high-tops, but our encounter transpires slowly for me
like tree sap engulfing a dragonfly when it just needs to rest.

Dressed in denim on denim, gliding by all nonchalant in light wash,
liquorice-black hair messily slicked back,

I imagine being you in this moment,
looking at me, the guy who’s caught off guard

but more relaxed than how I think I look to people.
What does it feel like to see me as someone

who you willingly hold a gaze with, someone who could be the one
to endearingly argue with down the road about which of us

was sending the other “vibes” in the stairwell.
It’s me, of course, apologizing under my breath

for almost colliding with you, an apology that speaks to more
than the moment at hand as it reverberates beyond these walls

that are trapping echoes your shoes make. I hear the sorry
from a future where I would say it to you over and over again

but you’d remind me that there’s nothing to forgive,
absolving me of my own guilt for letting my imagination run too far,

thinking that the worst for us would always come,
that any step forward together, would make me feel like I’m holding

you back—but back to what’s occurring now: you’re on your way
skipping stairs as you bolt to where you are needed, leaving me

here, where I have to be because my imaginings are just
imaginings, nothing concrete.