The air pricks at my skin like an unwelcome lather of discomfort.
The grass is starting to unfurl its winter coat of dulled amber
for an early spring ensemble of faded green. Dogs bark,
children ride their bikes on the sidewalk despite the cold.
The promise of spring is too enticing. Who am I to resist its call?
The Wasatch Front reaches towards the sky, the snow at the
summits is withering away. I reach towards acceptance
long sought after like the goldenrod emerging through frost.
I remember this time two years ago when we sat together
in the armchair by the front door, whispered promises
of renewal and brushed our fingers together. An intense intimacy
masked by assurances and laughter exchanged
between our mouths like a radio frequency that
is not quite right. A little too fuzzy and cracked.
You know you should change the station but instead
you remain in the comfort of the familiar. Pomegranate soap
and a raw smell of leaving exuded from your thin hands.
When we hugged goodbye, the vibrations between us
signified an ending, a last time. I soothed myself
with signals and signs(delusions) that we would see another spring.