10.26.2008 - 2:51 p.m.

"Is this the life you pictured for yourself?" she asks, on one of our several trips out to the stoop for her to smoke.

It is dusk, and raining, the puddles in the pavement reflecting back the last clear light of the day. Her smoke curls in eddies under my eaves.

"I don't think I ever pictured it, really," I answer, but do not answer. My windchime twirls weightlessly, adding soft notes to the patter of raindrops. There are wild onions growing in the flowerbed.

The truth is yet another poem I will never finish.

-stonebridge

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