You played “Hallelujah” on your violin as the A train screeched past 59th Street, and I gave you my only umbrella. I hope it kept you dry, and maybe, if you see this, we can share a subway car again—sans rain.
You played "Let It Be" on your ukulele as we swayed together on the packed F train. I was the one humming along, clutching a tote bag full of groceries. Our eyes met at 14th Street, but I lost you in the crowd.
You smiled at me under your polka-dot umbrella as we both dodged puddles near the greenmarket. I tripped over my own feet and you laughed—was it at me or with me? If you see this, let's grab coffee somewhere dry.
You played “Hallelujah” on your violin as the A train screeched past 59th Street, and I gave you my only umbrella. I hope it kept you dry, and maybe, if you see this, we can share a subway car again—sans rain.
You smiled at me under your polka-dot umbrella as we both dodged puddles near the greenmarket. I tripped over my own feet and you laughed—was it at me or with me? If you see this, let's grab coffee somewhere dry.
You played "Imagine" on your ukulele between stops at Astor Place and 68th. I was the one humming along, too shy to make eye contact but wishing I could thank you for brightening my commute.
You played "Imagine" on your ukulele between stops at Astor Place and 68th. I was the one humming along, too shy to make eye contact but wishing I could thank you for brightening my commute.
You played "Imagine" on your ukulele between stops at Astor Place and 68th. I was the one humming along, too shy to make eye contact but wishing I could thank you for brightening my commute.
You sat across from me clutching a dog-eared copy of "The Goldfinch," your green scarf bright against the gray subway crowd. I smiled when you caught me humming along to your music, but then you vanished at Chambers Street before I could say hi.
You played "Imagine" on your ukulele between stops at Astor Place and 68th. I was the one humming along, too shy to make eye contact but wishing I could thank you for brightening my commute.
At the Met, you helped me find the Impressionist wing and joked about starting a "museum navigation service." I wanted to linger, but my friend called me away—now I wish I'd asked to get lost together again.
We shared a tiny umbrella in front of Joe Coffee, laughing as we both fumbled to unlock our Citi Bikes. I wanted to ask for your number, but you pedaled away with a wave into the afternoon drizzle.
