The Places Where Water Comes

You Have To Have Been In Love To Write Poetry.

And Did You Get What You Wanted From This Life Even So? I Did.

But I Can Hardly Sit Still. I Keep Fidgeting, Crossing One Leg And Then The Other. I Feel Like I Could Throw Off Sparks, Or Break A Window--maybe Rearrange All The Furniture.

Nights Without Beginning That Had No End. Talking About A Past As If It'd Really Happened. Telling Themselves That This Time Next Year, This Time Next Year, Things Were Going To Be Different.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.