rhythm of a late night


“Remember when we’d
Stay up late and we’d talk all night
In a dark room lit by the TV light
Through all the hard times in my life
Those nights kept me alive.”

“Those Nights” by Skillet

I miss the days of eating vanilla
ice cream and rainbow m&ms in
pottery bowls, all four on the futon
strung together with careless yarn,
watching Forrest Gump until
midnight curfew came.

I wonder about the walks on the
abandoned t-ball field, and the
after-work strolls in the parking
lots and the airless Fourth of July that
followed and days of brewing coffee,
foaming milk, feeling afraid.

I can still see the long car drives
into the mountains, mispronunciations
of commonplace street signs, the
white crisp of the paintings in the art
museum, staccato of the way we both
walked, heel down first, heavy.

Evenings after Bojangles runs when
you stood in the mist during the sunset,
writing research papers and bringing
Hawaiian pizza into a crowded library,
stress-mingled Starbucks drinks and knowing
you would always nod and understand.

Here at the crossroads I see you drift
into boxes in the back of my closet,
One-Two-Three Years ago on my Facebook
timeline, hushing and running to corners
that I pass by every now and then. But
somehow, it only takes
an image, phone call,
look on your face or
way that you said those
words from years ago,
and here we are again
running through reels
of past footage as our steps
draw back together or
drown in distance.





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