I still smile
When i think
of you, I still feel
the key ring on my
middle finger, biting into
the tender neighboring flesh,
the weighty beige phone
receiver in my hand.
I still see
your face, tanned
and rosy-cheeked from
the bitter cold, and how it
paled beneath that particular
shade of fluorescent light from
overhead, drained of color, still
glowing when, eyes flashing,
you broke into one of
your knowing smiles.
I still hear
you talking, voice low
against the ringing soprano
chorus of crickets, when, on
a slow night, we might find time
to talk, to linger indoors, letting cool
air fortify us for our next foray.
I still feel
the thrill of the walk
—through the dark streets
echoing with roiling engines, ribbons
of music, and laughter from the riverbank—
to your door, where my flat, dull evening
would transmute into fireworks over
the Vegas Strip, or, if you were out,
into a cheap 10-watt bulb.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Photo: Lasvegaslover
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