July and nothing is the same. Out
in the world, sitting through stop
lights, saying I’d love to see you but
I’ve got plans. Making plans. The
first time your feet throbbed from
walking around for hours it almost
felt like comfort. A new friend in
your house in the middle of the day.
How your voices fill the empty
space. How everything just falls
into place. You hear the clicks
and the story writes itself. Maybe
that’s just how it works. The tree
across the street turned red and
you should have seen it coming
because earlier this year you
watched the leaves burst with
color but that was a different tree
further down the road and perhaps
you were a different person and
even now, after all of that, these
things still take you by surprise.
July and everything is the same.
You said you would stop trying
but you never have. You said you
would stop caring but you never
will. These days we carry each
other. These days we carry on.
Maybe that’s just how it works.
All of it. Making dinner as your
hair drips from the shower, making
up the measurements as you go
along. Driving to the beach with
a cooler full of meat in the backseat
and more wine than you can finish.
Remembering to pack a sweater.
It doesn’t feel like you’ll need it
but some nights you will. Finding
moths’ wings everywhere. Wondering
what their life was like. Knowing, as
you sweep them into a corner, why
they keep flying towards the light.
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