It’s funny, when I first fell in love
we weren’t hurrying through a bustling city.
We never collided in a coincidence
of cascading documents and black coffee.
At no point did I kneel, squinting
through sunlight to melt speechless
under her tender gaze.

I forget that rom-coms end,
that two-hour loves
dissolve like sugar
in every line of rolling credits.

These movies made me a romantic:
the ones I saw with Mom,
serendipity I can taste
through VCR static.
I like to imagine writers
pretending to be God,
arranging chance with
minor miracles 
because Destiny sells
sells so well that it starts to reek
of the oily, linen stench
of bills wadded and clamped
in a producer’s wallet.

I prefer tragedies these days. 
They don’t sound as sweet
as Sleepless in Seattle,
but it makes sense
to cast myself among  
missed coincidences:

In this scene
we sit across from each other
in a quiet library,
a breath between Me and
You with some shade of piercing eyes, 
I’d imagine. Of course,
we could speak, dry mouths
behind blushed cheeks, and
let the turning of the world
force us together, as if
all of history was 
orchestrated for us
in this single moment.

But I’m too busy
admiring freckles on my wrist
to notice You 
not noticing Me.

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