Good Morning, Good Night

His new blue shoes and the hats he wore and how they hid his face and the way he waited near the two glass doors until she was ready.

The walks they took and the time he made and how he chose to spend some on her.

The bench they picked and her favorite fall day and the leaves that traced their route and the windows of the little bakeshop that framed their conversation.

The way he listened and laughed and watched when she spoke.

His lean against the brick wall and meeting her after a long day and his rolled up plaid sleeves and how she didn’t have to worry.

Her spicy citrus and rosy cheeks and letting herself hold on and how nice it felt.

The way she tied knots in her laces and curls and how he saw and smiled and didn’t mind.

Her hands and how they couldn’t be still with him sitting there.

The buzz of his words first thing and being awake before everyone else and keeping each other company.

His predictable routine and his gentle disposition and his sweet good mornings and good nights.

Her crossed legs and oversized striped sweaters and the F train and feeling so safe standing next to him.

Too much coffee and not enough sleep and looking forward to reading about the day.

Wanting to see him and taking the L to the 6 and trying to cut the silence into pieces and knowing there was nothing she could do.

The questions that piled and multiplied and how she folded them up, then down until she could pretend they no longer took up space.

Holding her head up and letting it fall and tears marking her walk to and from and in between.

The songs she played and hoping they would help and crying through crowds and feeling worse before feeling better and being the one who felt more or anything and that being the worst feeling of all.