The Triangle at Edison Green

I think that you are me sometimes,
a sentence without end, but two
beginnings. We two, sprung
from forgotten bottles left
to bead with condensation
on faux marble, faces matched
like twin photo frames, shaking
on the plaster walls.

Phantom siblings, I grew up too.
Triple deckers and the sounds
of other people's feet, conversations
on the internet, shared orders
of french fries, grades, and novels
about dystopian futures. Now
we live our old journal entries,
while our parents age. We hide
our embarrassment and feel
the things we do not say through
the decade between us.

Tonight our shoes slap the sidewalk
in another city where we are both
from and are not from. The trees
shake the rain and we gather speed,
because the minutes move quickly
and we want to move with them.
We are more than ghosts who visit
the memorial in the triangle
at Edison Green and I think we both
might know the ends of all the sentences,
but just like you can't write
down your thoughts, I can't make
myself more brave.