Somewhere inside there are words for you, hidden like March crocus beneath the snow, unseen but known, waiting to burst out in riotous colors that speak of dirty smudges on your fingers and black arcs under your nails. Details of a man who works for a living.
Nods in the direction of some forgotten noble quality, like the wool vest you wear. And I could trace the tear in your faded jeans in my sleep, how it stretches over the thin, white pocket-fabric, hinting at your hidden skin.
Somewhere just out of reach lie the elements of a dark poem. Your love for her, lost. And lost again. False accusations of trysts that exist only in imaginations. We embrace our previous commitments, but you have a weakness for redheads and I have a history with men with your name.
And we are drawn back in again and again to a story about a man who pauses to give a stray tripod cat an affectionate pat. A man who smiles, while his world crashes in pieces around him, and works to the tune of his own whistling, while I imagine the melody is meant for me alone, a sign that he is nearby and I am in his thoughts.
Rebecca Gaffron is fascinated by sea-green spaces, words, and men who behave like cats. She is a sometimes writer and can be found at her virtual home, rebeccawriting.wordpress.com.