I ask for love and then I ask for love again. Outside my window, the weather is intimate with its finances. A cloud hovers directly over the house we pretended to grow up in. Rain falls single file. I see you in everything: the tilting mailbox, the lawn gnome neither of us remembered buying, the tumbleweeds that never stop by this part of town. I ask for you and then I ask for you again. Come home, the words I have yet to write ask you. Be all of this with me. Weather tells me it’s going on break. The cloud makes its way to the edge of the horizon and falls off the earth. The cloud will never die but one day the sun will explode and what will become will be a pre-dawn always morning, ice in the femurs and clavicles and hip bones of the fossils of those we once knew and promised we’d never forget.
Hunter Conway’s poetry has recently appeared in the Eunoia Review. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org