I always forget that I live in a beautiful place.
Your black silhouette--
more indie rock than goth--
against the snow.
I feel your sadness in the landscape:

in the shelf of salty ice left by the tide,
grey clouds (full of snow) waiting,
two wings (all that's left of a dead seagull)
and you pulling out a feather,

bare trees puncturing the horizon,
designs of half melted snow on the roofs
(so neat and predictable in the distance),
the last boat left to survive the cold water.
You disappear under the foot bridge.

We can't keep coming back here.

You walk ahead, camera tucked in your pocket,
chin tucked in your scarf,
looking for something to make into a memory:
me
windswept
all bright colors against the gray air
pink hat pulled low
dog pulling me further behind
an image you could not let pass unacknowledged.

We both try to capture moments.
You have film.
I have words.

___________

about a friend who i used to be very close to in high school, but our lives are moving in very different directions. i guess i'm preparing myself for when we have nothing more to say to each other.