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.