Your hand warmed mine, discovering a turn in the road. Caught off guard, seeing that we were not traveling on the same path. Just now.
Last April, we stumbled upon the tiny grass tufts underfoot. Not knowing then, they would grow and pull our hearts across a meadow, split and break them with the rush of a river, abandon the pieces upon opposite ends of the forest, exile us apart with an ocean between. We ignored it then. We didn’t feel it like this. Until just now.
Together was over.
But at 2:55pm, absent are plans, tears, or lies. Just now, we smoothed our flimsy picnic blanket. Sipping on mimosas until it’s too dark to sit still any longer. The road ahead is misty, and it smells like sadness.
Just now, I kissed you.
My lips left cold.
Cindy Koch 