flannel.

Rain in small rivers against the living room
window, greens spilling into the concrete
grays, kiss my tabby cat on the crown as
he watches the world, and the hours
go on stacking.

Indie music reminds me of autumns in
college, flannels in October, dorm room
movie nights, the worst beer and the
best company, a guitar strum rips
me back to my mid-twenties, sharing
headphones and shaking hands, and
you kissed me in that hotel room,
those wild first hopes of forever.

These days I say goodbye
like I’m nursing an old injury, a knowing
nod, it’ll sting like hell for the
first few days, but I’ve known this
ache before, and nostalgia is
nothing but pain from an old wound.

I confess, I am something of a gardener,
and it’s been a season of tilling the
ground, pulling out the roots that
wrapped their thorns around my
gentle edges, go right on singing softly
in the stubborn hope that my
love knows how to bear fruit, and
fledglings evergreen will become
my forest, a canopy stronghold
beneath the wanting sky.

Memory has become a library
crowded, and nothing says vanity
like a shelf of books collecting dust,
so I scribble notes in front covers,
dropping books on park benches,
coffee shop counters, empty seats
on the train, maybe this story
will serve you, and depart and
return to a world that
still might hold surprises yet.