sift

walden freeman

a breeze we don't feel is pushing us back inside. back towards the door with the rusted lock and your hidden key under a plastic rock. time is late, the "empty" boxes in the driveway next door may contain spies or worst, christ! memories of you and i getting kicked out of the library by the lady with the funny accent. the night the breeze blew my hat off and we stopped the car and when i found it you kept pulling a few feet up as i was trying to get in. when did we escape our teenage years? did you ever think we'd be where we are today? so many miles apart but still thinking about what we never did with each other? the empty bottles hidden under your bed. the candy wrappers, the missing socks. the static building up on your carpet and surrounding my organs and my fears. your car dying on new year's eve day and me pushing it alone for six blocks and across a busy road while you steered and the wind chill was well below freezing? i never told you how i really felt, and i suspect you are guilty of the same, however it may be . . .