Thursday, December 12, 2013


A dry kiss goodbye through the stale tobacco air
of an apartment no one visits and no one leaves.

The zero-gravity silence of somersaulting between
the blue-and-white what used to be and the salty dark
of floating alone, unable to catch even one more breath.

Walking in the shade of riverbank trees as the breeze
picks up the cool of the whitewater and reminds you
of that time you laughed together with so much abandon

you let yourself believe her skin would always feel
so warm. Voices inside your head that echo there
like a very long time ago – when you used to sweeten

your coffee each morning, cool it with heavy cream
and close your eyes after the first slow sip.

Southword - Issue 25 (December 2013)

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