You’re listening to Joy Division
on a damp, drizzly November morning,
nowhere near ready to speak
of your soul.

Your view of the alley
gives away so little.
A tree crown’s
stubbornly persistent

leaves fringe the roof
of a burnt orange brick
apartment building
across the street.

No pink sunrise to serve
as an introvert’s perfect backdrop.

Enough! It’s time to return
to your preoccupation with me—
the abandoned utility building
tucked into the hillside

between parkway lanes.
Someone has written
“You’re beautiful”
on my face. You would never

tattoo me that way. You would
write a song without words
instead. I want to believe
there’s more to come.