In this dream, we are all together. It’s December and I miss you. I am not going to believe I won’t see you.
Tonight, you’re just outside the front door, I can hear you. You’ve got on that tweed coat, the one that’s almost yellow, with the thin black lines, and you’re smoking. You’re so elegant out there on the porch, talking in between exhaling, waiting for dinner to start. You say something self-deprecating, make that sound like a “tff,” you’ve dismissed something you just said. You laugh while you set down your drink.
It’s raining but you are warm in your coat. That tweed coat. Those sharp shoes you have on. They aren’t scuffed. You have a scarf. You would. Your jeans are black. Your shoes are not. Your hair is parted, you did that, combed it that way, so the front would come forward more. I’m not going to think about that morning when we got to your apartment, and someone had jumped out of your window. Someone you didn’t know.
I’m going to think about your coat. Your glasses. Tortoise shell maybe. Why would you leave? Why would you go now?
Dinner is going to be delicious, and you will be over by the record player where it used to be in the corner, at an angle, and you’re standing there. Did you want to stay this young? This is the age you will always be now. You will always be young. You will always be standing by the record player.
I’m not sure how I can eat dinner if you’re going to stay on the porch.
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