Sunday Near the Window

A certain tilt of the light
evokes your hand in mine.
The 2 p.m. Sunday afternoon recollection
blooms within me like tea in water.
That amber color – it jars me.
Takes root somewhere deep and unseen.

Memory creates your face
in the wood grain patterns of floors
and worn furniture. I think of the white wisps
of tangerine segments, halfway to my mouth,
juice running down the side of my forearm,
sticky in the summer humidity.

Your cloying sweetness in my mouth
attaches and salivates. I remember your
slender wrists. You liked flowers.

I think of you when I walk past the old café
and see yesterday’s roses rotting in today’s dumpster.
The red cries out to me. Hurts my heart somewhere
deep and unseen. Jars me.

I walk on.

In my mind I sip oranges.
I peel tea.
I evoke; I was awoken.

2 thoughts on “Sunday Near the Window”

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