Come Over (unofficial)

23.01.2026

This poem lives in the afterglow, where wanting starts knocking in soft, impossible ways. (Also, I tried to mention more earthly, existing things in this one.)

You invited me over, no ceremony,
just an evening shaped like come in.

Three cats,
(yes, three)
each one a different sentence -
one watching,
one already brushing my ankle,
one owning the softest silence.
I learned their paths, learned their names,
because my eyes
were shy of yours.

You moved differently,
less outline, more current.
Your body knew where it belonged -
crossing the kitchen,
reaching for plates,
turning, pausing.
I followed with my eyes
and then quickly didn’t.
Shyness has its own choreography,
mine kept bowing.

Almost a week has passed, which is to say
time tried, and failed to move on,
it reappears,
like footnotes I keep rereading.

Your story flickered -
a watch, vintage Omega de Ville,
I thought of your wrist &
time wearing elegance, choosing not to rush.
I started watching Your Friends, Neighbours
and suddenly, watches everywhere -
and without permission, you entered the room again.
Not dramatically, just sat beside my thoughts.

Now I find myself listening for impossible things:
a knock that isn’t scheduled,
a message that says nothing
except come,
a postal pigeon, even -
something slightly absurd,
romantic in the old way.
Or you
at my door, unannounced,
with hunger, with wine,
with the easy courage of showing up.