I remember you:
when it snows in the foothillson languid afternoons
in the hushed twilight
on Thursdays at 5
in the freeway where all the lanes but mine are moving
in the smell of a new book
from red bottles
during Februaries
when the cat begs to be let in
in archaic negations
and an irrevocable promise
with your plane ticket in hand
at every game, set, match point
5 Comments:
oh damn. this expresses my pain in the humblest way.
And to think that I did not have the courage to say "please, stop".
poignant and sweet. i missed your writing...
sometimes it catches you in unexpected times/places and it's so sad. i can relate to this as well.
"in the smell of a new book" yeah, scent is so powerful. great post.
J'ai dit:
Stream-of-concious sensoral nostalgia . . . captured very well.
Thanks for sharing.
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