breakfast with wallace stevens

(i wrote this months ago, and is better fitting to be posted on a sunday, but let's just pretend it is..)

odd, almost as if we’re characters
of this city. breakfast and jazz
on sunday mornings. this green
freedom someone else spoke
to. and i want to do it all
again. the latte, the chess
pieces all falling into place. the book
you wanted to be mine, and i wanted
to be yours.

write? as if the pen had never
left my hand. as if the pen had never
come close to paper. i want to weep,
this windy day. swirling about
like memories, like a cliche.

yet,
i love you just the same
and now it seems as if i’m writing
without connection to the words
at all. or at the very least, their
meaning.

i want the silence without the absence.