reflecting as we turn from the water

there was such hope
in this morning.
there were springs
and summers all
jumbled up in our eyes.

there were poems
scrawled in neon, winding
between our fingers:
binding, not bound. now
they slog through wet

descent, flailing, &
here we are at the back
of the notebook, a single
leaf remaining
before october ends.

cold settles in
like a low fog,
like tequila hung-
over, like
responsibility.

the river keeps rising,
and i will miss it.
there was such hope
in this morning.
& i am waiting still.