Binghamton

The rise of the morning dew, The stillness of the walkers few Her name was Andromeda, Not like the constellation she said, It has no meaning you're just walking with a friend We talk about the leaves and the road, As our feet step here and there Going to no where in particular She'd tilt her head and stare at me But when I looked at her To be sure, she was looking forward or elsewhere I can't explain it. Looking down at the gravel, our shoes, tip tap Noting the dark hue of the rising sun and this, and that Yet the whole time she was not talking at all but Looking straight at my face, I swear I felt her observing everything there was to observe, So I'd glance at her sideways in-between words To find her again looking forward it was so weird