i watched as the mysterious stranger slowly faded away
one moment, real enough to split the check with
then each new moment, slightly less than in the previous one
the words which could be said about the stranger's location
shrunk until all that remained was, "not here"
i don't know which is worse
to know for sure he is gone forever
or to suspect that he is inexplicably undistant
and will very likely fade back into presence
finish the unfinished sentence
which he remembers like it was seconds ago
and i now only remember remembering
he'll laugh at the punch line, and i will weep
he is so young, and i had forgotten
we used to laugh like that
i believe one reason i write poetry
is against that unlikely appearance
though i know it will never come
i write poetry so that on that day
he will recognize me.