We sat on the back porch reading Bukowski to each other as we
hid from the sun.
Even the overgrown wasp from the summer before
feared the heat.
And I watched you blow smoke as you preformed and
as the shadows grew long and uneven.
And everything was good
and everything was perfect.
I left you that evening for far away states in an over driven
machine that floated through the concrete river.
Chased disappearing shadows until they were nonexistent.
And as sickly sweet poison and smoke paid homage
I thought of you and knew that
Everything was good and
everything was perfect.
Neither of us are certain how the world began
or the power of coincidence.
I will never be able to express how autumn
makes me feel, or how much I love you,
But I know that you are everything good.
You are everything perfect.