Sunday meeting.
Outside
the remains of a thin mist
hovers
in the grassy hollows and
along the edge of the woods.
You are always so meticulous.
I believed you would understand.
This.
This is what you wanted.
I loved but
forgot
and then the clouds
so silver blue and heavy
and the leaves
orange and red
softened a horizon made
indistinct.
Her voice a sweet plum.
Close the distance.
Close the blinds.
Fresh cut the flowers lie
crushed on the floor.
Disrobed our world turns dark.
Each of us seek a dreaming
penance
yet she is instead only answered
by a phantom
chill
that bites
her delicate neck.
There should be a break in the weather.
But the seasons never really change.
Do they?
Sunday meeting.
The low sound of a train
calls up a past
ever
rising and falling in a static motion
we can’t escape.
There is little left
of that once was
and even less now to be gained.
Between us
then
will be to what we cling.
marcellosrevenge 