byEric Gansworth
- That night, as you stood
in the open door
of your car too long
we let in the late,
damp air, allowing it to crawl
through the marrow of our
arms growing impossibly
heavy, with moisture and
cold, I made small
talk to delay your departure,
to be near you, to see
your smile, to revel in the distance
in your Georgia accent, that takes me
from this place I have lived
out my entire life, and though
you wrapped yourself in
a heavy sweatshirt, offering
that you have never acclimated
to the northern atmosphere, I know
it will not warm you, burn off the
history of our lives to the point
of embrace our friendship has not
yet comfortably bridged, and I grasp
your hand and allow you that
graceful exit, listening
to your car's heater
fading into the darkness
my aching arms closed
around me, the cold
sinking deeper.