I Left My Hat

Forgotten in the moment,

bent in a pentagram

for that first kiss.

Our collision was complete.

Geometric.  Reciprocal.

I wore it home on the tram.

It concealed enough of my eyes

to steal sideways glances,

while our hands became absolute.

Then I knew there were hats in heaven.  

Romantic notions.  Miracles. 

When it was time to go,

I left it behind on purpose,

next to the trilby at your door;

knowing I would be back

to the golden ratio,
lasting result of chance.

tk/May 2015

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rain

Why does the rain make us feel so romantic and strange? Maybe it's the fact that we are unnatural spectators of it, from inside our homes, and it is a reminder that we have the power to live our whole lives like this, if we choose. It's not the smell of fertile ground kicked up by raindrops, or the slick leaves, or the way we must amplify our voices to be heard over this larger presence. It's the power of the rooftop that makes us want to fuck under it.

― Amelia Gray, AM/PM


photo: rain at Willow Manor this morning