The trees are covered in these leaves, ones that look like circular, papery suns in reds and oranges and coppery golds. I think that they were probably green once, probably had their faces turned to the sky in a bid to grow stronger, to know something other than simply what it feels like to be stemmed to one another.
A man and a woman, together, with coffees to go and an old grey-around-the-edges dog, who sits down resolutely in the middle of the street and refuses to move as the seconds slip away; she picks him up by the belly with her left arm and struggles the rest of the way, as I sit here wondering who all these people are exactly. The happiest dog you’ve seen today, three legs not four.
Wait a short few weeks to write to the other one, face stained forever like wine on a white sheet. If only more people were the kind who wanted to know, who waited long enough to see you become enigmatic and wilder than they thought possible.
What a lot they had to go through, what an astonishment that they found you at all. That sheer goodness of intention and care, barely concealed by a delicate and soft body. Not having to even try to be more than you are, thankful that finally somebody sees you for what you are, with the potential that you carry. You’re both considered yet quick to decide, overspilling with words and the need to flee one thing or another.
Lights leave the sky and find their way into streetlamps.