tristful
“Do you believe, she went on, that the past dies?
Yes, said Margaret. Yes, if the present cuts its throat.”
the ball cap you wear changes the shape of your face. I didn’t recognize your silhouette in the balmy streets of LA. midnight struck six minutes ago and I saw a faceless figure running on the opposite side of the palm-lined roadway. my name in your mouth stirs recognition. heart in my throat where the lilies thrust upright and I cried out in yellow dust. you wore a striped shirt and jeans too big for your narrow hips. a backpack and suit rack hang from one arm. scent overrides sound. beer, sweat and something dark and spicy cocoon your body in a heady musk. I can’t escape the feeling that what we had was left in my bedroom in flagstaff. with the purple sheets and wooden walls. we don’t belong here, with mineral tiles and orchids. romance smells like almonds and palmarosa trees. my skin warmed by your tongue wet from the Grand Canyon. my heart is made of fire and ice. verglas. the walk to the apartment takes too long and we passed by long mirrors edged in gold. when you drop your bag in the closet, the contents spill in every direction. our epilogue is your repacking: Anger: Buddhist Wisdom for Cooling the Flames.
Photo source.
