sitting on a bench, enjoying the touch of a cool breeze sliding slow across my arms, i sneeze because of the ragweed and think of a face that is at once familiar and foreign; a love that has become alien despite longing, despite years. the moon is up there, as she always is, and there is no comfort in her consistency. a mirror of loneliness. the chill of absence. my stomach feels hollow and empty.
the world spins toward autumn... in this hemisphere at least... and i wait for new dreams to be born in the same cavity of heart and head where the others have died.
"it's so fun to go fast," she says.
"is this the saddest i've ever been?" she asks.
i make a pot of ginger tea, count days, count years, count the stitches in the beanie i am making in anticiption of our common return to cold weather and feel my heart rise in affirmation to both sentiments. even her question seems a statement of fact.
i smoke a cigarette despite having quit my habit 10 years ago this october in honor of my mother's impending demise. i smell my fingers and feel ashamed but reach for a 2nd to quell the sudden, non-sensical desire to poison myself... to feel anything else.
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