Little Moving Picture

Last night I saw two shadows,

one slight and one steady

muffled by curtains,

painted in lazy lamplight, 

framed by bricks

a little moving picture

a post card for my secret self,

of what things could be

it could be me in the foggy glass

some version of me

that found you

and you could come to me

every evening

- and our shadows could dance,

and light up the window

again and again

our shadows would seem heavy

on cold nights

and thin in the summer

sometimes they won’t match

- mine will sag close to the sill

yours might seem fuzzy and far

but they will always meet

slip into each other in the end

every evening

in our little moving picture.