I knew it would be like this when you returned.  It’s always been this way.

The signs are there, omnipresent as the dawn, in the mirror, out the window, in the sky if I dare look up.

You arrive early, and arrogantly linger later each day, beholden to no one, keeper of the clock, doling out the bejeweled hours that can be extended, dream-like, only at your bidding.

You declare yourself with such clarity, such brazen beauty, that is easiest, really best, to wade in, leap in, maybe even, to the forceful current you are.

What could possibly be wrong, after all, about you returning?   Let’s celebrate, you taunt me, and why not, indeed, because I can’t work, can’t concentrate, as long as you are here, alluring as ever.  Thoughts yield to the breeze, artfully dodging completion, crumbs make a final and unyielding stand on unwiped surfaces, the mail climbs higher in its abject, lonely stack.

This time, maybe just this once, let’s give in to all that you are.  Take these days, and illuminate them as you will; can you linger?  No?  You are going, already?  Unthinkable.  Unbearable.

Don’t leave me.  I adore you.

June.

 

 

 

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