On the cusp of courage

You held an open journal
across your knees, spine down, pages up.
Exposed like
an invitation that I accidentally, on purpose,
peered over you to read as I mouthed
words that were not yet
meant for me.

Longhaired pedestrians wore high collars
and turned to look at us. 
The eyes that touched us once,
did not linger twice. 
I admired their attention
that drew so intently 
to the earth beneath our feet.

Short hair and tight shirts walked
with coffee cups cradled to their chests.

I was distracted
as we sat on the edge of each other.
My hands encircled the confusing curves
of your parchment that teased with promise; 
what would it say?

We sat on the edge of comfortable,
wanting to speak for the alchemy
between encouraged and encroached.

You held your book with a firm spine
You stuttered quietly like an editor scrawling in the margins. 
Stet. Stet. Stet.
I stopped sitting in the shadow
of the strange darkness as you stood
and asked: may I read to you?