All the faces


I remember all the faces I have ever seen,
strangers, loved ones, loved ones-turned-strangers.

That day, on the crowded subway train,
deep in a tunnel under our hometown,
there were hundreds of faces,
hurried, worried workers, parents, lovers,
desperate to get somewhere.

We were there too,
going to a small cafe for an ordinary cre^pe,
I was already where I needed to be—
safe, protected, looking at you.
For once, remembering just one face—
yours. I do not always recall it now,
except in a few scattered memories of fleeting joy,
and gut-wrenching grief that inspires
immaculate Spotify playlists.

Every face you ever see in a dream,
is a face you have seen before—
stranger on a train, the love of your life,

Your face, clearer than any,
Your eyes, twinkling, like the surprising quiet of sunlight.
Your smile, the promise of cities left behind,
of wars waged, of the desperate longings
and the jolting fear of returning home,
only to leave again.

What is love, but a knock on the coffin
as your dreams are lowered;
your 751st poem about his eyes?

What is love but the face you remember
like the warning gasp water makes
right as it overflows out of a jar?

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