She’s like the kind of air
that wakes you up when
you walk out the door
at the beginning of Fall.
Telling you to face the
shorter days with burning
awareness fueled by the
omission of heat.
Feeding squirrels almonds
out of her hands she reads
the books you tell her about,
and you listen to her music.
Borrowing t-shirts and worn
out pajama pants with numerous
holes, but mostly just in places
you can’t see.
Walking together in the night
saying nothing for gaps of
time while each of you learns
from the scenery.
Standing for long conversations
in pools of light under streetlamps
when all the others have long
been dark.
Leaning against each
other in the back row of a rundown
movie theater. Still whispering without
seeing each other’s faces.
The drive home takes a detour downtown
where you watch drunk people stumbling
around, from the car, still with her music
in the background, and you realize
this is what you always wanted.
Teleporting Typewriter 