a poem for Ben*

I remember sitting with you in a small
field when the air was sweet and comfortable.
An air that draped itself upon your
skin to shield it from a breeze.
The field, wasn't really a field.
But an inevitably guilty attempt to cover
up the shame of the town's aging lines.
It was adjacent to a bank, and I played
with the crumbling dried up dirt under the
bench that you sat on
I read you a poem here.

You called me confessional.
I don't remember what we were doing there.

It is easiest to lose the time when you can
feel it moving forward, but looking back
has different laws in physics.
Back, then, in the relation to now drags
slowly behind the future. Progression.
For now it is cold and I tread carefully,
through ice glazed parking lots,
but I can remember you in the warmth.
And you can still find me in the snow.