Meet me here, under the boughs of these trees. Let the leaves fall on us like rain as the wind kicks up and let the only sound be their rustling overhead and under foot. Don’t look at me with recriminations, don’t blame me for the change of seasons.

Memories
of you
of us

Of you
in me,
in my head
my bed.
Your touch
taste,
how
the shadows
played
upon your
face
above me

Memories
of you
of us

Of long
separations
things left
unsaid
long
silences

Flickers
that
still
can
make me
sigh,
gasp

Memories
of you
of us

Of then
of now

No regrets
or
recriminations
just
a wink
and
a smile.

I am cleaning.  Slowly, methodically I am setting things straight.  Cleaning my head, my house…my life.  I cleaned things up with you.  I told you, in voice mail, but I told you what was always there, you know the truth now, the truth you may have suspected, may have hoped for, may have dreaded, but you know it now. 

I am cleaning my house and one of my giant conch shells falls.  It is my favorite, but you knew that.  You were there when I found it.  I am worried it is damaged, I pick it up, inspect it.  It is fine. 

I run my hands along it, inside it and my finger tips touch something.  A piece of paper.  A sticky note.  I pull it out of the shell and immediately recognize your writing. 

It has been years since you were here, years since I got the shell.  Years since you left me this note, on a small square yellow sticky note.  Your thoughts, your feelings.  Insecurity and doubt.  You tell me your truth. 

Did you wonder if I knew?  Did you think I had read it and never said a word?  Is that what happened? 

Years later, we both know the truth.  We both know the truth of us.  Who knew a sticky note would become one of the most valuable things I will own?

If she could, would she?

Probably not, but she tells herself, whispers it like something she is afraid of being over heard saying, that she would.  Says she would, will, make it different, make it better, brighter, bolder. 

Then she sighs, laying her head back against the sweat stained pillow, feels the cold knot in her stomach and wonders if what they say is true, that we are just victims of ourselves. 

No more victim, she thinks and turns on her side, restless, bunching the covers between her legs and thinks fuck the fickle hand fate, if she knows, believes, why can’t she? 

Fear, she is afraid, afraid of the unknown – pain and disappoint has become a comfortable companion – it does not challenge or prod and to walk away from it…to walk away from the comfort of knowing…knowing how and when it will end…and risk…well…if she could, would she?  

Probably not, but still, she tells herself, tells herself it only takes once to be right as she kicks the covers off and pads silently across deep carpet to stand at the kitchen sink, running the tap water until it is cool. 

She runs her wrists under the water, fills a glass and takes a long drink while she stares out the window, just once…she thinks…sighs…drains the glass and goes back to bed to toss and turn and agonize about if she could, would she?

May be…

There is
a thing
You
do,
a
tone
you get.

It is
so tender,
so intimate

like
a caress.

I hear
that
sound
that
tone

and
suddenly

I am
aware.

Aware
of
my
skin.

Alive

Tingling

From
that
sound
that
tone
in
your
voice.