Yeah, you. I’m talking to you. The one sitting in the shadows. I can’t quite make out your face, but I can see an open book and a faint light illuminating the words printed on the tissue-paper thin pages.
You’re studying something, and I think I know what it is. The pages are turning, your finger is running along, and you stop, your chest rises, and I see a profile looking off into the mist.
I look at the indentation on your finger, parallel lines indicating something that was there is not there anymore. Glistening in the moonlight, but you wipe it away.
You’ve seen what I’ve seen.
You look up, and I see a glimpse of me.
I, too, sit down and open my book. Waiting for the sun to rise and the sky to clear and our eyes to meet.