starting out in the evening

We should have started out early this morning,

when the leaves were just peeking out, teary-eyed over

something that happened overnight. Yes, this morning,

before I cooked you breakfast, before the milk

curdled into a frown. Or maybe, it would

have been better if we decided on it a little after lunch. Yes, lunch,

when you still have that rare satisfaction all curled up

inside your stomach. You

could've put on those trousers I like and it should've

been all done by now. Really, that would've been the best time,

we could've both done everything else we set out to

do long before, even leaving out some

minutes for that coffee you make so well. But you're right, the best

time should've been at around three, when everything

seems enough, the world an old painter's pallet --

orange, then yellow, then a still-gold,

so rare these days. We could've have felt old without getting old, your

legs wrapped around mine under that cherry tree you used to like

spending time under. Or we could've walked around the block for a

while, waving at people we don't know, but putting ourselves

out, still, because the world is a better place

with all these sweet nobodies to play our funny roles for.

But really, not like this, us setting out this late.

My eyesight is getting worse, you know. Sometimes, I'd just like to leave

my eyeballs by the mailbox, see if they can fare

better than having them attached to

my soft face, skin all loose and discouraged. You're getting tired, too,

I know. I hear your hip bones groaning when

we turn corners. I have this fear, see, something as strong as the wish I

hold --- that things could've been

better if I've seen you earlier today. Then, we could've packed a lot of

memories in my grandfather's old (old!) portmanteau, his

face stuck on one side, scratched

out, as if there was a declaration of a prize behind it.

I could've looked at your body, the sun a spotlight,

and said I've seen you during better days. But now, things can't be

helped. If you think about it, we're still okay. The lamplights

make your skin feel familiar, like a book one likes

to keep reading over and over. It's as if we've grown

up together, instead of the two of us, unlike so many others,

starting out in the evening.