Wednesday, May 11, 2011


One morning, as my conscious surfaces, I will open my eyes and I will not think of you. I will check my email, and get dressed, and still I will not think of you. When I am ready, I will not imagine your sleepy form turning towards me for a kiss goodbye, and I will walk out the door, down the stairs, and to the street. I will get a coffee from the corner deli, large, and I will wait on the downtown platform, and I will not think of you. On the train, I will not wonder as we pull into 86th street if this is the morning our paths will unexpectedly cross, and I will not be secretly disappointed when the train pulls away and you are not there. At work, the students will be loud and boisterous, the staff tired but dedicated, and I will not think of you. I will not save little stories to tell you, because we will not speak. I will spend my subway ride home reading or grading papers, and I will not think of you. At home a song will start playing that I associate with you and I will smile, but I will not think of you. I will read before bed - my book is really good - and I will not remember how you would accidentally fall asleep, face buried in your pillow, while you waited for me to get to a good stopping place. I will lay the book down, and shut off the light, and in the moment when your hand is not there to hold mine, then: then I will think of you.

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