It wasn’t a shared memory.

The lockets of past, 

Lived rather separately. 

It wasn’t a promised twoness. 

The laces of present, 

Unhurried, resisting oneness. 

It wasn’t an emotion felt. 

The realm of the imagined instead, 

Evoked with much stealth. 

It was a traced moment. 

Etched in the flight of the city, 

Under the moon’s flesh, crescent.