What’s wrong in wanting to be common—you asked

while we were rewatching Fleabag, and I was struck

by the sudden tenacity in your words, worried if this

might be the moment I fell for you. I had spent

most of my twenties trying to overlook the beauty

in ordinary things, only to discover the harder you try

to look away, the more it hurts. At my job, I worked

so unbearably hard to differentiate myself, only to find

out: we are already so inexplicably unique, our range

of particularities and peculiarities—inexhaustive

and most times, even traits shared with our parents

not genetic but simply a coincidence. The last time we

met, you were on a roll with your jokes. At the sink

while washing the cups, I noticed on the rim

the fading shape of your lips, a shade

of magenta that was soon to color

an invisible bruise your departure

would leave in the air of my room.

You claimed that night, I have kissed you more

than you have kissed me. How’s that even possible, I cackled,

questioning the obvious flaw in the logic. A kiss counted

as one for both, no? With a chortle as decisive as a cheery hand

going up to wave goodbye, you said, my kisses were heavier,

I have thicker lips. We laughed some more, drank hot

chocolate, finished two packets of chips. By the time you left,

it was nearly morning and drizzling, the August rain

a haunting kind that resists pouring for days and I remember

a pigeon braving the soft shower on the sill, knocking the tempered

glass of the window with his beak, the green-purple iridescence

of his neck’s feathers like a feeble lamp in the dissolving

dark, the half-light of future imploring me to not rush,

never rush. I don’t know if he wanted to come

inside. Was he cooing or was it the music

of my mind having a premonition?

I will never be sure about the sound.