I told him,
"I don't miss the pretty people"
those who made me
more secure
that I didn't want
to be one of them.

I'd forgotten how blue
the sky can grow
at twilight in the mountains
blending indigo
with glimmer-stars [not airplanes]
showing themselves
in growing numbers.
And I know what the Poets meant
of ink-skies
and their lovers' eyes
and I miss yours
because they were grey.

And now I walk alone
down roads too rural
for streetlamps or
speed limits.
And I remember crossing
three-lane highways for a
half gallon of milk,
wishing it wasn't always
so bright
in the city.
I miss your light.

But I can taste the
saltwater on the air
of our mighty mud river
(a full six inches deep
now that the drought is over)
I miss your skin.

I told him,
"I don't miss the pretty people,"
but I lied.

09/06/2002

Posted on 09/06/2002
Copyright © 2025 Meredith C Hartwell