100 Words on Love, by Steven Garbin
These are fleeting moments hidden by long lost jealousy. The icicles snarling at me staring from Saturday’s window – I’m all caught up in the glow of some imagined afternoons ending with a calm blue light glancing up from the snow on our yard. You’ve brought your reading glasses, and behind them your shy eyes – full of dreams, welling up with our unmade memories.
The stone is cold now, not like before when the flowers blew away before autumn came – before the snow fell and before it melted, running slowly over our old epitaph. Some things, though, are still the same.
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