nostalgic at 431

excuse me, Mr. Jean — 
do you remember
that afternoon?
You, a stranger,
slipping into the seat beside me,
laughing like we’d known each other
for lifetimes.

Twenty-three days.
Then — gone.
No number,
no trace,
just the ghost of your perfume
lingering on winter air.

Now, the bus moves on,
and I’m here,
stitching memories
into something warm.
Even temporary things
can be eternal
in the heart.