fall through winter with me

She was standing a few feet away from where he was sitting all alone at the table, a wine glass between his fingers. She stared at his lips, his beard, but never his eyes. The entire bar was staring at her mouth, her lips, her eyes. Each word came out in her voice but she couldn’t recognize the poem. This felt like a new verse. Like a new rhythm. Like she was floating. She was flowing, in her own universe. Bleeding out of her open arms. The stage was her home. And when they went home together, he didn’t mention the poem, and how it was all about him, and how she had mentioned his dad. She was sitting on her bed with only her bra and underwear and boots left on her body. She was watching him take his shirt off his body. Watching how the soft flickering lights danced on his skin. He avoided her eyes and stretched down to his toes. She saw the stretch marks on his shoulders and almost reached out to touch them. She had the same boots on when she walked to class the next day. A squirrel jumped out in front of her and she laughed. It was starting to smell like fall. One night he’s sitting at his desk. He’s trying to find the bug in his code. It feels like a chase. He’s close. He knows it. She’s laying on her bed. Writing or reading. Sighing occasionally. He sneaks a peak from the corner of his eye. She has always had soft skin. He remembers the first time he held her face in his palms. The first time he stared into her honey eyes. He sighs and clears his mind of all the memories. Tries again to find the bug in his code. She’s laying on her bed. Reading or writing. This has become their normal routine. He doesn’t notice her leave the room for a glass of water. She mistakes all of the airplanes for stars in the night sky peaking through the balcony. She walks into the cold wind not wearing enough clothes. Remembers the first time she left him take off her clothes. Remembers how every muscle in her body relaxed as soon as his curled around hers. Remembers how it felt like breathing together. All skin to skin. Hearts exposed. A few days later all of his clothes are packed. She can’t ignore the suitcases by the door. He’s walking home from class. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. He just got off the phone with a good friend who’s letting him sleep on his couch. His warm breath mixes with the cold air. The trees are getting bare. He’s taking the long way home. Waiting until she falls asleep so he can grab his bags. She hears him walk in but keeps her eyes closed, keeps her cries low. He leaves the key on the kitchen counter. Let’s the door shut behind him. Sits in his car for a while. His guitar is sitting on the passenger seat. He almost wants to take it out and play a song. But he needs to leave. This isn’t his home. This was never his home. And besides it’s getting cold. And he needs to fix his code. 

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