The Road Beneath Our Feet

My Life As A Silent Film

A sudden downpour has left these streets 
glazed like a flickering scene in a late-night film:
all silvery, smokey reflection, as in the unearthly 
iridescence of Garbo’s inscrutable mask.
The last time we met was in another summer storm.
You stood under the translucent dome
of my umbrella, with room enough to shelter two,
filled with echoes of words unsaid.
As you turned away, our tears, if any had fallen, 
might have merged in the rain-washed gutters
and been transformed into this piercingly grey,
luminescent day where you—
disappearing, but only half-way gone—
are already looking back.

— Ellen Wise