Concession

Summer winds wander with me. Humid and indelible, they blow at fingers and around my wrists. I walk, wet sidewalks underfoot, sloshing boots sliding through puddles, afternoon rainstorm residue and I am running late where I promised myself I would not linger.

Sallow memory keeps me wandering city streets, past a dirty alley where the two of us (clandestine, somewhat fraudulent), waist wrapped and tingling, hid ourselves in shadow, impatient mouths reaching for each other. Our decisive moment when for the briefest instant I knew (certain you did as well) the despair approaching us.

Half a decade removed from the scent of your sweat on my sheets. Half broken smiles, half remembered looks on your face, and what remains but my misunderstanding? I push through it towards a blank page, a place to write my first confession. I knew who you were, what you needed and could never promise.

It was my mistake, believing your surrender meant the same thing as mine.

I cannot fault it, still smiling when remembering you in the driver seat of a rented car, jeans lowered, lightly touching your exposed hip (faded red band of worn out underwear, dancing bears, vibrating cell phone), followed by the unforgettable gasp as I lightly kissed the back of your hand.

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About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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