Slipping Away

Image

I try to dig my face into
the scratchy olive turtleneck,
but only my chin succeeds.
The wind cuts my cheeks
over and over again
as I wait for your shadow
to appear around the corner.
I take out the silver-plated
lighter from the pocket of
my faded blue-green jeans.
I flick it on and off,
then run my finger over
the two lettered inscription ‘BC.’

In my left pocket is
a brand new condom.
You bought it this morning
and told me to hold onto it.
You said you’d come back for it.
It seems to weigh down my pocket.
Shuffling one foot to another I see
the old wooden swing set we used
to play in. But you fell from the swings
and scraped your knees.
I thought you were going to die
but you were much older than me.
“I think you’re reading too much
into the haircut,” you say.

My watch reads quarter to one.
There is no one but the moon and me.
The shadows from the trees swaying
back and forth want to swallow me up.
I know you’re not coming.

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