It’s the small moments that hurt me.
It’s the chill in the air,
the chill of late summer fading into evening,
the chill of a moon dancing in front of a sunset,
the exact same chill
as the one I felt at our first dance.
Except
that chill blossomed quickly
into the exuberant, sweaty heat of three hundred teens
dancing side by side. This chill will remain lonesome.
It’s the silhouette of a palm tree against a fiery sunset,
at the exact same angle
I first saw a sunset on your premises.
It’s the way the world holds
its breath for the sunset to pass from miraculous to mundane, all
of us staring at the same sacred spot where heaven meets earth.
It’s how I remember
my pent-up breath, realizing in the sky’s brilliant glory that this
would become a symbol of us.
It’s the color of the sky,
the exact same shade
as the morning I greeted your
cafeteria lady and began chatting with her.
I never spoke to her again, but I remember that
she wished me luck in life. And
as I spoke to her under that muted silver sky, wrapped tightly
in your arms, I knew I could be no luckier.
It is the way the sun glints
off the freshly cut grass, shining
the exact same way it shone
when I lay on your slopes.
It is the cloudy early morning,
the way the tired and cold mix
the exact same way they mixed
our first fire drill together.
It is the man on the moon, the crevasses
on his surface smiling down
the exact same way he smiled
when we were together.
But now you are gone.
Or perhaps I am gone.
And I wonder how he can smile now
that we are no longer together,
the exact same thought I wondered of the
cafeteria ladies
the day I left.
Accompanying Photo: “Friends Sunset” by Aliza Abusch-Magder
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