Sunday Morning

November, cold and whispering,

but the sky above clear, so blue.

The park by the lake on a Sunday,

just us together in the morning.

The wind makes choppy waves.

No insect whine of boat motors.

We sit at a picnic table, watching

the water, sharing a clove cigarette.

The taste it’s leaves on our lips

make the kisses so much sweeter.

November is quiet, and gives dreams,

even as we feel all we love will burn.

We chase each other, playing tag

like we were still children, still innocent.

You catch me, still so fast, daughter of wind.

Lone art geek on the cross country team.

I chase after you in return, and you look back.

You would, even in the underworld.

We walk, hand in hand,  quiet streets.

They’re are people going into a church.

Tall and stone and from a fancier age.

Stained glass windows show Jesus’ miracles.

You say: “I used to feel at peace in their,

in honeyed sunlight of a spring Sunday morning.”

You have one last clove cigarette to share.

We sit outside your house. Sun is on us.

Even in the cold November, sunlight is warm.

Our skins kissed by a light that lovers everything.

I put my arm around you, kiss your head,

and wish this morning never become another day.

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