Watching your hair turn gray in patches. The
friends we hadn’t met yet, the friends we would
lose. Playbills and magazine covers tucked into
corners. Finally deciding to have children and
never having them. Couplets left to dust over
on creased paper. Scribbled napkin scraps,
standing at the bus stop thumb-typing tiny keys.
Knowing your coffee by the mark of your
mouth on the side of the cup. Walking the
same winter trails in the morning. Yellowed
newspaper headlines. The next dog and the
one after that, falling asleep in the crook of
your arm. Left-behind buttons in plastic bags
by the wick from the candle burned down. Torn
sleeve of a worn sweatshirt I still can’t bear to
throw away.
Haley DiRenzo is a writer, poet, and practicing attorney specializing in eviction defense. Her poetry and flash pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Boulevard, Eunoia Review, and Bright Flash Literary Review, among others. She lives in Colorado with her husband and dog.