One More Line

Four windows dark, one square of gold, then yours comes on across the cold. Coffee ring beside my wrist, three bad sentences on the list. I cross one out, you stretch your back. Your shadow waves; I wave it back. No names, no talk, just two small lights keeping time on opposite sides. One more line, one more line, then we can call it a night. One more try, one more time, leave your little lamp alight. If I lose the words, you shine. If you stop, then I'll remind: one more line, one more line, we're almost there tonight. Your screen goes blue at half past one. You hold both hands up: finally done. I point down at my blinking page. You mime a cheer across the space. One more line, one more line, then we can call it a night. One more try, one more time, keep that little window bright. You found your words; I'll find mine. Tap the glass and mark the time: one more line, one more line, we're almost there tonight. At 1:43 my answer lands. I read it twice with shaking hands. “Application sent” fills the screen. Across the yard, you point at me. I close the lid. You count to three. No more lines, no more lines. We get to call it a night. One good try at the right time, two small windows burning bright. I never learned your name, nor you mine, but you stayed until the sign: no more lines, no more lines. We made it through tonight. Goodnight, window. Goodnight.