blue peaked roofs. that's all i can remember. wobbly tables that quiver with every stroke of my pen. hardware stores just might be my favorite places in the world, especially after mornings spent snooping in bottom drawers for yr stashed love letters, tattered secrets, and every birthday card i ever drew for you.
there's a significance in our friendly obvious gestures. i get so tired of necessarily haughty eyes.
dark leafy greens, brown rice, deep red slices of beet. what could ever be more beautiful?
and the scent of all of our less-than-apprehensive unspoken thoughts. the lingering aroma of memories we'd like to fling at each other just to prove we can. the exhausting dialogues of new again every time, almost. (i can't believe she didn't recognize me, after all those years of muddy riverbanks and faces drawn on chins. i still know the winding road to her house, still remember that narrowly-missed head-on collision that one day.) and the way nothing could ever feel more natural than bikes on small town streets, the easy interludes of stoplights and left turns and weaving across lanes.
i think i was telling the truth when i told them i'd buy the house slowly from them, fill it with summers of lush tomatoes and juicy blackberries, winters of fireplace inertia and all the requisite cozy sweaters we can pile on. i wouldn't mind. really wouldn't.
winter here isn't even cold. winter here is a blissful clear sunny day and wide highways for me to push this heavy old bike along, standing to pedal up slow graceful hills.
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