Half-Familiar

Look, all I’m saying is that sometimes
I can feel you there, alive, electric, on the
other side, and I know the way your heart
beats fast like mine does when you look
at water moving in the dark. It’s like being
in a plane and flying above your own
apartment, knowing that below you
there are people that you love, and
that if you drew a line between you
in that instant it would point straight
at a star or empty space, one of the two,
neither being better than the other. 
When the train comes up from underground
I always wonder for a second if I am on
the wrong one, taking me from where
I meant to go, but I’m only being anxious,
and I press my nose against the window so
that I can see the city silhouetted in the rain
behind my own reflection, the edges of my face
half-lit, all of it half-foreign, half-familiar.