I don’t regret falling in love with you,
even though some Sundays it hurts to get up slowly in the morning.
The music you played for me once, you never wrote down or recorded,
grows fainter and fainter day by day.

Those days I used to think about you,
with a smile on my face cutting through the wind.
Now morning walks have become somber,
husking inward in cold hands and a winter scarf.
Still, your ghost laughs right beside me,
leading forward in that sauntering sort of march.

Those trips we never traveled that we said we would
But in my head we went to Canada together –
tilted heads under overcast clouds, cheek to cheek –
even though it was me, a small pillow, and a window seat,
sitting lonely, perched on a mountain slope, in autumn chill.

Octobers were the best.
We’d dust our kitchen with pumpkin powder, brownies and creams
Cut costumes out of sheets, with big eyes
take our little sisters trick-or-treating, swinging plastic pumpkins
holding their hands, and so close, I’d pretend to be holding yours.

Sometimes I like to look at pictures of myself
huddled on my kitchen floor in my apartment, leafing through old albums,
searching for the ones where I’m smiling in a crowd, but alone.
I search for your reflection
in the catches of light in my eyes
and mouth slightly open, my face lit up in pink blush,
lost in the happiness of when you were always on my mind.


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