a man who got on at lionel-groulx looked like jesse. "i ought to take the former of the two options—at least once in a while," i thought to myself. the doors stay open longer than they should with no good explanation.
though this is by no fault of my own, i have been frequented—gently—by a memory of you and i in a park. it is my intention to again state that i have not been trying to remember, but that it has been happening on its own.
leaves after dark at the turn of the last season framed the picture. stars could be seen in the sky around some church in the near distance and you surrounded me. i can't forget the blocking.
we were a picture in technicolor. laying down, i could see my shoes next to yours just like we can all see our noses. mine were not even as yellow then as they had been in june when i walked through st. louis square for the first time alone—for the first time this year.
in spite of this impending feeling that someone will hate me for saying it—although i'm not quite certain who that might be—your scent brings an inexplicable comfort. i would use the word safety when it should feel right.
no matter if i live 50 more years or 50 more days—no matter if by water or by fire—i will be in the ground some day. and that is a comforting certainty. for now i intend to enjoy what life has to offer: the things, as they matter; the people, as they come and go.
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