21 to 20

To the girl in the sometimes what I think is a green coat:

You descended the staircase today. Not the spiral that we deserved, but that spiral would happen later, anyway.

That one floor of separation is my Pacific. When you get to the West, they tell you that it will change your life, so soon enough you are waist deep, immersed, and ready to be warm for once.

I haven’t drank this much coffee in years looking for an excuse. I push buttons, hold doors, and your exasperation fades when it is just us.

But often it is not, so we share that carriage and I play my role hunting awkwardness.

You are going to be cold when we hit the street, I know. This isn’t California, yet your glow is so convincing.

We stroll. My staccato sarcasm is intertwined with your legato laughter. You are my Kim Gordon.

It is one of the better days. The aimless days. The stone-bench-in-what-constitutes-an-urban-park days.

Some strands of blonde hair revolt with the breeze long enough for me to be transfixed. Again. And again.

I want to prolong the fade away, the sunset.

So I count freckles to bring my heart rate down, and I know it’s not going to work.

 

From: The man in Monday through Thursday business attire.

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