idiot nostalgia in poetry

always weird when
someone with the same hair
of the same height
as an ex breezes through
past you in line at a bar
brushes on over-ways

just for a moment
you do a double take
with your eyes
with your what-if generator too

then she turns and
no
someone else
reality shifts back into gear

the possibility of coincidence
actually being a kind of magic
dissipates

the possibility that things
could be different this time
as if by some kind of a magic
dissipates as well

different face
different hands
different everything
except the silhouette and hair

which turns away and you
catch back up with reality
as well
after a couple of moments
frozen in possibility and
idiot nostalgia