September 30, 2013 § Leave a comment

No, it was a song, then. A song that reminded me. We were driving. Golden hour on the uptown. Good morning. You were singing to me, again for the first time. Broken window rolled down all the way and you will find love. Went uptown craving autumn, looking for a pumpkin pie and in the 5 o’clock everything felt pure, pure fall, freshly pressed. Quiet of December in the twang of a mandolin and seeing out west a prick of sunshine running back to trace the arc of your irises. Warm and brown and steady, holding. I caught our image in the truck’s slick side and saw love holding on to a long-haired self, fleeting as it shimmered in the bending of the semi’s metal body, matching rhythm with a smooth-wrist strumming.

It was his song that made me think of it. William. William Fitzsimmons made me call you and I think I’m sorry, but don’t you remember?

There was frozen pizza sticking to a pan we forgot to oil, cheese dripping off the sides; we watched it gurgle on the oven floor until the smoke came out, black and wounded. You opened the old brown door and let autumn in and it caught you up in a whorl of leaves. I think it overcame you and you kissed me in the kitchen, then, soaked in smoke and shaking towels at our mistakes.

Caught up in a whorl of falling. Up or down, it didn’t matter, because each direction ended in a cup of coffee and a two-sided “I’m sorry” except for when it didn’t.

I think I’m sorry this time. I wish there was a cup of coffee waiting, too, but you’re busy I remember and autumn was a while ago. It was a song, then.

The birds of spring returning

Your ghost I burn

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