A Lump in the Throat
The scent of
frankincense
on the early evening
air.
Windows are open. The
sound of traffic
in the distance lost in
the closer drone
of lavender bees and
wood pigeons.
You body dusted with
sweat, drying in the heat
and leaving tiny
circles of salt.
Albinoni on the record
player
and a lazy trail of
smoke
from the cigarette
between your lips.
Still early, but the
sun sends shadows
racing across the lawn,
longer and longer until
they are taken by the gloaming
and the distant
streetlight flickers on.
You rise, and a line of
ash rolls from your clavicle
as you speak:
“I have to go home.”
“Home is where the
love is,” I reply
and you laugh: “Just
not here.”
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