They drove by in a sky-blue Volkswagen.
He wore an army-green shirt.
She sat in the passenger seat and
wore a white spaghetti-strapped dress:
at least I thought it was white
but it could have been grey.
They coasted past, blissful,
laughing at a shared joke,
as I stood on the side line, alone.
They drove by me again 20 years later.
In a 504 station wagon, this time.
He was in a dress jacket and
she wore a flowered-print dress.
At the traffic stop they exchanged glances,
fused with understanding.
It was on a different street.
Nonetheless, I was there,
once again on the periphery.
In the intervening years,
I too had found love, once,
or so I thought.
But with the passage of time, I knew
that life had been happening to
and not for me.
And now here I stand, still.
On a different edge, a different time,
enclosed by the same pressing void,
watching life pass by.