and i can’t recall the last time i touched snow as i held her hand,
nor the day i became a man and let it go. she was young and sublime,
as her impeccable eyebrows could attest. though i was always leery
at best of her motivation. she looked to always be questioning me.
call it insecurity. but i’m not too proud to admit, i saved all her
hallmark cards in an unmarked box, and still gush over their familiar
contents that once sang idyllic to me, i.e. “forever and eternity…”
she was no poet. i am not certain i was one either. neither of us really
knew who we were back then.
(originally pblished here)