A Song From Back When

*(somewhere, a screen door yawns open)*

November but who would’ve guessed

you smiled (chin up) / I winced (face to the skyline)

What was the name of that place?

— The park with the seesaw?

— No, the path beneath the bridge,

— where I said nothing

instead of *stay*

// years rusted shut at the hinge //

( your jacket still in my closet,

pockets full of ghost crumbs )

Don't you / still / sometimes / dream it like I do?

[ soft focus, no faces ]

The moonlight crawling up our backs

tasted like a song

I forgot

— hum it for

me?

Please?

*return to sender*

*return to sender*

*return to sender*

Sabine Bradley is a writer, artist, thinker and learner from Rochester, New York. They enjoy long walks, olives, and B-List shark movies.