two april 2010
six : twenty-six p.m.

everything is still perfect. magical. meadows with poppies, rusted metal, antique glass, walking in the rain, flooded river. your baby fine hair. word games.

but, when the weather is like this (blinding sun, summer heat), he creeps back into my mind. and i picture him in his nearly empty house, drinking whiskey and smoking too many cigarettes. feeling out of place in a crowd. his wrists. his pants rolled up to his knees. his busted old car. i can hear his laugh, still. and this just won't leave me alone today.