Lone Thread Lost

In the music of voices raised and muted in transactions and gossip.

Of metal on bone, at the meat vendor’s stall to my right, and the toot

of a makeshift horn from the bicycle that has been convinced by its rider that it can squeeze into the aisle already too narrow for the human populace of the open market.

In smells that transition from revolting to appetizing, back to revolting, with each hurried step.

A cocktail of sweats, cheap perfumes, fish both fresh and rotting, and the pile of garbage everyone pretends is supposed to be a part of the scene.

Skewered fish roasting over a lazy fire, their bodies glistening, their aromas enticing.

This is where I’ve found you.

In the chaos of the evening market, and the flurry of feet propelled by one thing or the other, our feet seem to be the only unmoving ones.

My eyes lock onto your hooded eyes for a quick second, or a trickling decade. I can’t tell which it is.

I see a smile, and my lips curve in response.

Flirty conversations, and my heart sways with abandon.

New layers of time bury the present, and with each one, I feel a new tug at my core.

I feel an assurance weathered by time, that your heart belongs to me, as mine has for a while.

A ring and a veil.

High pitched cries and toddling feet.

New layers, new feelings.

The muezzin’s call comes faintly, most of it sponged up by the noise.

Reality pulls my eyes away from you and straight to my wristwatch.

When I look back up, you’re gone.

Lone thread lost in the fabric you were found in.