Bright Spot

I fear love more than death
and all the pine tree needles
falling in the fire.

I get out of my old car
and stare over the shaded
part of bridge,

and in the fresh running water
is an octopus as large
as you can picture
getting tangled in the rocks
within the river.

It dries up in the summer
when the water level slips
and all the suction cups
are eaten by the birds.

They fly off in a giant group,
probably twenty deep,
and cast their shadows lightly.

Looking down at all our engines
and these over priced pools
of streetlight

they are far more free than
anyone who knows me.

She stands there with me
waiting while I watch them
with our hazards on
while everyone shoots past us

almost rapidly.

Eventually we drive again
and I become her audience;
while her questions
become something
saved for later.

I love when she describes to me
the tattoos she will never have
the space for,

and I nod along excited for the sake of it.

I want to see them all, I say,
afraid of what is left of me
without her,

but then
her hand closes around mine

and there is only time ahead of us.

It curves around the dark half
of the galaxy.

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