eleven september
twelve : thirty-six p.m.

the wind is perfect.

and you were barefoot on the street, blue paint on your hands ("do you want to help me finish my painting?"). the new masterpiece, the new piano, the new polaroids on your bedroom door. and you mentioned yesterday.

walking to his house, holding hands, the narrow stairs and the potted plant.

and it's all back to normal. and this weekend, richmond.