The low fall light created a crisp edge to the trees, their reflection in the still, cool water after that hot spell. I was waiting for this, eager for the relief of beauty, clear after the storm. I headed off down the trail knowing that you were not there, but I still looked for you, in trees, in a thought I had once when I saw you there that first time, in the snow.

It is obvious now, always has been, though so easy to overlook the tattered edges of love the way you wear it–mine. I never should have said it, I know, said the three magic words, but there it is, and it is always, there, like a thought written on a white board with the wrong marker. I am that way, reluctant always to let a good thing slip away, even when it has really already gone. 

I never see those things, never do; not a desire for staticity, no, never. More visceral, the urgent want when I catch your scent, the way you toss your head back, like a distant memory, a star, light years away.

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