I am walking and I am alone. Alone, not lonely. Alone, but smiling. Because I am thinking about you. I don’t know you, but I am imagining you, imagining coming home to you the first time, the thousandth time, the ten thousandth time. Imagining you sitting on the high stoop, in the fading evening light, because you have misplaced your house keys again, because you love to turn your face to the dimming sun, because you want to catch me turning down our street and unaware, to see what I am like when I am alone, just like now.