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I don't remember the season only that it seemed bright and ur hands / warm and unsure /
speaking, or trying to.
tripping over soggy words on a tattered paperback, swinging back and forth.
we took turns for what seemed like hours on the chapter where Cathy was wearing her pointe shoes for ballet.
after a while, my orchestra played. the angst and clarity of smashing pumpkins or was it of mice & men.
I can't remember the songs we played to each other, only the feeling of connecting tired, murky green eyes to blazing tones of Louis brown.
a hand on the cheek for Maria and Tony.
playing the p/arts/ quiet and slow.
not wanting to hurry and scare off the other.
I wish I saw u more often b4 but we're stuck 1,333.8 miles apart.
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