Dear Lover,
Sitting here on this bench.
Mustard yellow leaves rush by.
Perpendicular to the trains beneath my feet.
Hitting the heels of my grey flats.
I should really be wearing boots in this weather.
But there's this saxophone a few feet away.
Playing, "What A Wonderful World."
And an elderly father and his son.
Their beards not so much white as colored by the city wind.
Strolling together, holding hands.
Deliberate love.
And that bare, black branch just twists so against the skyline.
And these wavering bricks beg for a slower pace.
Something tells me that this is how 8 o'clock in the morning should always feel like.
Love,
Me.
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