Lost, Convertible

Woke up with the sun beaming through the window.

It’s seven forty.

Loud shout in foreign language.

Discovered path. The windiest road down Lombard.

It’s a beautiful morning.

Warm ocean breathe.

Tight fingers holding mine.

Freckles. You have freckles.

Never noticed that.

I always remember you.

As this thirty-two year old.

Blond hair. Green eyes. Bright smile.

Thin. Medium framed. Light kisses.

Ocean beach. Flying kite.

Your convertible. European convertible.

You always remember me.

As this twenty-five year old.

White dress.

White water raft.

My very own townhouse in the peninsula. 

Crazy girl.

Slimmer than now.


“Why did you leave me like that?

“Drifted apart.”

I ask the obvious question.

“I don’t know.”

That’s your favorite answer.

Pause.

“Maybe because so that we could start this.

Fifteen years later.

Together. Again.”

Your final answer.

I now drive a convertible.

A small European convertible.

Soft top.


Should we fly kite?

Ocean Beach?