I sat on the floor, my back against her bed. A clock ticked loud. Beside it, an unfinished essay on Kerouac sported almost Olympic-symbol coffee-rings on the top page. Seas would have to rewrite that.
“Tell me... if you like.” Words gently whispered, like she was talking to a child. Which she was. And we both knew it.
She said I am your Autumn, your lover, your friend
If you smile at me gently I’m yours to the end.
You’re my suntime my funtime, your scars I will mend
And I’ll patiently wait ‘til you laugh once again.