i. the wind carries within it little knives, little grains, which sting when they strike my face. they strike my face and I am creating that momentum. i don't stop swinging.

ii. the two of us are here again and we aren't talking, but it's a camaraderie that lies among this pause. passing each other always a second too late; it's not grief I feel looking at your back, but it's something.

iii. I am standing far away. the wind blows cigarette smoke back into my face and it stings my eyes. the bit of moisture that leaks from within me is cloudy instead of clear.

iv. there's a padlock on the gate today and we stare at each other, dumb. the world may continue to move on around us but that second wherein the path we were taking suddenly became too over run with **** and branches to walk upon, to even crawl through, sticks us to the ground like a flytrap.

v. the lump in my throat keeps getting bigger. I ask you to feel it; swallowing with your fingers against my throat. it's probably nothing. but I'll be sorry regardless.  

vi. the two of us - back to back. when the wind backhands one, the other flinches in time.