Monday, February 1, 2010


a memory. (fleeting, i have to
catch it before it disappears.)

it was the summer of my
eighteenth year. august. it
was hot and humid and we
had crossed state lines—a
weekend away.

we sat there at the picnic
table, beneath the trees and
blue skies (getting settled in
our home away from home),
knees touching. otis redding
was playing on the radio.

and then, a kiss. lingering,

longing (lost in a summer’s

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