March 27, 2019
What I Remember
the sun pouring like honey through our bedroom window
drinking lukewarm coffee because I don’t want to get up and not hear you breathe just to nuke it hot
the red of the apple I had for lunch, the crunch of it when I bit in
the white of fresh stucco on the place across the street, the black windows staring back
you, cooking onions and garlic and tomatoes and speaking poetry to me
drinking wine, the reddest and fullest we’d ever had, or maybe that’s just what I remember
the moon and how it might be the largest airport one day
you in the doorway of our bedroom
You certainly have the heart of a poet, none more so than in this little postcard!
Wow, but she did lover her this man!!
Thank you, Michelle! My creative writing teacher would smile and nod if she saw your comment. She was always trying to get me to write poetry and I’d tell her I’m a fiction writer, I don’t know what to do with poetry!