Tuesday, July 31, 2007

The traffic was a series of stutters and coughs. I could not translate the lines and sweeping metal. I reached out for your callused hand, but you had gone ahead and were not turning back. Your name in my mouth, its repetition, was not enough to make you turn back for me. You were the back of a black suit, topped with a head of black hair, and your legs were very long. Their speed intimidated.