Something that you feel will find its own form
I–on the passenger side–find myself eagerly stretching my face toward the sun with greed—taking each slice of golden shard that cuts its way through stalwart black clouds—I want warmth. I want mirth. I wanted the summer again. All I can say is that I want.
We three colleagues in a car–driving to an appointment just a bit too far—chatting about this little thing—that little thing—anecdotes of life and people and dogs–making our way through Sutton in Ashfield—making our way through the minutes, hours, day. But my mind wanders away from them–to those days I found myself on this same road–three seasons ago–on the A38 turning onto Coxmoor Road to Eastfield Side before meandering my way to your door—to a threshold filled with “I love you”.
My eye grabs the sight of an amber leaf that lost its grasp from pale branch. It twirls and sweeps up—plunging and twirls and dives–dancing on current before committing itself to what will come— what will come–out of my sight—gone—
Left to wander the streets in my mind–those streets on which I spent so many days and nights navigating my way to you.
But I—on the passenger side—and those days have gone.