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Laces

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Three and a half hours
into new beginnings and fresh starts
I see you, a face among faces
rosy red blooming across iridescent cheeks
floating through that corridor 
hugging eggshell white cinderblock
and mint green journal
wordlessly passing by.
curiosity explores my mind
but I brush it aside.
why should I care about your black irises
darker than the hair that teases your shoulders
why should I care about the guitar
strewn on your back
or your loosely knotted laces
there is not a reason to care
of paint-stained fingertips
or the vacancy beside you
yearning to be filled.
yet I turn and grab your hand
and we stare,
into our soulless windows
the air between us is fire
you smell like the trees
on an autumn morning
your fingers warm me to my core.
That was three years ago.
now I smell the trees every September
and they taste bittersweet,
hands cold without your warmth.




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