Washed in shades of gold under the sugar maples
at sunset. Book in hand, probably a rented copy
of something science fiction, you sat folded
like an origami bird, knees tucked into your ribs.
I came closer. You didn’t notice
and I had no intention of saying hello anyway.
Your hair reaches the cheekbones now.
You’ve got more color in your face.
I guess things do change after all.
Remember how I used to sit with you
until the sky would erupt in its usual drama,
head flopped weakly against your shoulder?
How I’d write bad poems while you read,
stopping only to flick the loose strands
from your eyes and to ask you,
every so often, Isn’t it nice to just be here?
I could’ve asked something today
but I didn’t. I got close enough to look
and then chose to look away.
It’s nice to just be here.
Please keep reading.