The seat before me is bare. The gentle jostling of the train upon the tracks as it ascends a hill to pull into the next station distracts me briefly from my absentminded reverie. The pages in the book left long neglected flips over lazily in my hands.
The seat before me is bare. Sometimes, though, it isn't. Sometimes the seat beside me is - and when it is, sometimes even then, it is not.
You've always been there, sitting across from me, or at my side. Quietly, yet consciously. Sometimes I look over, unfocused, sometimes I forget to breathe. Sometimes you're there in a pause, and peripherally.
You've always been there, where the seat has been empty. You've always been there, before we even met.
A moment all alone, suddenly I sense you. A whisper by my ear, a warmth behind me, at my shoulder. On a crowded bus, a sudden happy thought. In every moment I needed you, in each moment all alone, somehow there I found you, even before you were my own.