The lights are hiding, shadows pulled over them,
And I hide with them in this quaint conservatory.
She sits opposite me, near a window, smoking hookah.
Is she a phantom? What little light there is dances on her skin,
Her chest rises upon each inhalation and subsides at every puff.
Standing up, I walk to her until we are one cubit's length apart.
"Five years later, my offer remains."
She is not here, she was never here.
I am not here. This conservatory preserves a nonplace, a nonwhen, a chance I never had.
All that was gold is diminished to nude ash and I'll see her at our best friend's party.