by Neil Carpathios
Today a stranger said, “I love you.” Said it looking right at me, a few feet away
as he turned around before entering the store, although it was intended for
the woman he thought was beside him who had stopped to adjust her shoe.
He was embarrassed but it was too late. He couldn’t take them back. I wouldn’t
give them back. The words were mine now, precious. I added them
to my collection. Some people collect coins, stamps,
shark’s teeth. I keep them in an echo chamber inside
my skull where I play them back whenever I want.
I’ve mostly snagged words of my mother and father and wife and children,
but now and then something like this happens. You never know
when you’ll crave a stranger’s love. So his words are in there, catalogued,
saved. He smiled and shrugged and said “I meant I love her,” pointing
to the woman on the sidewalk. But words are birds
sprung from a cage—once you say them, bye bye.
He held the door open for me, and I smiled back as I passed through,
and I winked, and said, “I love you too.”
beautiful and succinct