I’ll walk past your vacant house today.
The house where we spent afternoons
reading Rolling Stone and listening to Green Day,
while lying across your bed
absorbing every word –
every inch of each other.

I loved the way you would hold me when I got cold.
I can almost feel your breath on my neck,
but now I’m just cold –
without you.

And the red leaves don’t seem as bright.
The wind cuts through my old grey sweater
(I’ll never understand why you loved this sweater so much).

I wore it that first night in St Louis.
We discussed philosophy over fortune cookies and hot tea.
Then we walked – hand-in-hand – around a town we could not know.

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