Where?
Not in coat pockets hanging wetly like tongues
Where?
Not behind radiators weezing with slow-filled-warmth
hiccuping moments of bliss
(Who Would Have Thought The Last Run?)
Your hands, so cold and small, birds in flight
gravel on the tarmac curled up in protest to shoes
running together in charm, you a little faster
I waiting for the moment when rain became storm
cutting our descent into sheets flapping on line
whirling above us in dervish mischief
(Who Would Have Thought The Last Run?)
Where?
Now that I am here, watching for your knock
Where?
Not hiding from me but as lost as damp letters
unable to dry out
Some excellent imagery and wording in this fine write.