unwinding warmth in a New England winter
10 January 2005
11:09 p.m.
The woman I'm dating unwinds in my room, leaving parts of herself in corners and piles, lingering in my life hours and days beyond our last fleeting kiss.
Our goodbye and goodnight kisses are fleeting. Butterfly wings. A quarter sigh. The last, final pulse of a leaf dropping to the ground before it settles still.
Of her, tonight, I have found a half glass of orange juice, a clemintine, more orange than the juice, more of her than the juice. A New York map, haphazardly folded, a pair of soft camel colored corduroy pants, and the slightly imagined scent of oatmeal on my sheets.
All this, folded into a corner of January like a sun-bathed beach discovered.