In our before life, before the accident, before
the assisted living, we laid side by side,
smoked in the house, with windows and
chests wide open, the backs of our hands
touching, listening to the same song, the important
parts aligning, by cosmic design, or happenstance.
I remember all of it, for the first time
in years, while I ride my bike along the coast of
Maine, listening for black-backed gulls,
really thinking of Massachusetts, listening
for changes on the EKG, really thinking of that time
we slept on a park bench, listening for sirens,
before you were told you could
never come home again, before I decided
I’d never go back, either.
Aubri Kaufman is a writer and a therapist from New Jersey. She's had work in journals such as HAD, Pidgeonholes, Rejection Letters, and others. She can be found on Twitter at @aubrirose.
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