sunday poetry i didn't find.

waking up early and too cold to go back to sleep (but then, it was i who left the window open overnight). writing about loss, and the thin hope of regaining. transcribing daydreams. late lunch and early dinner, and all inside a book, on a mountain in the past. a quiet hour. music in my ears bringing a different solitude, and one just as welcome. sneaking vodka into my cola like a teenager, and getting stuck while looking at fabio moon's art (i love gabriel bà's work, but it's fabio's images that always kidnap me). the small rebellion of not repainting my nails.

fragment: picnic in the park.

I looked back at my friend. He was standing at the beginning of the path, the bag from the bakery in one hand, the other stuffed firmly in his coat pocket. He looked cold. But, I reflected, he was still smiling, so he must be okay. I backtracked and slipped my arm through his.

"Come on, let's find a bench."

"You said the rain was stopping."

"It has. See? Look at that puddle, not a sign of a drop hitting it." He dutifully looked where I directed, then back up at the grey sky.

"It doesn't feel like it's stopped."

"That's just because the air is wet." I replied blithely, and tugged on his arm. "C'mon!"