How funny that all I remember of you is your belt, fine leather, and hair
Oh, and your backside, that poise extending out to your elbows
Hinting and hiding something that runs in you.
And with your backside and your leather belt and hair... You fade.
How funny that the first thing I think of you is your smell
like the juice of crushed onions that pierce through my nostrils
And all the beautiful glowing gems of you come second. Or last.
Leaving a bittersweet light silently dancing in the shade of that year.
How stupid that I should think of intersections now
And parallel lives,
Biting my nails and pushing up my glasses.
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