I remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew
and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another,
and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.
I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we
collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near
a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog.
I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges
of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you
got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.
I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit
at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching
travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.
And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening
parking lot, watching your train pull away.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six