Krista

sundays in october

riding an old schwinn

in the brisk wind

through the falling leaves

up the gravel alpine road

to meet you and your warmth

and lie with you in your bed

in the white down sheets

and look into the abyss;

your eyes, an inky ebony,

endless, leagues deep.

i could not see through the shadows

but the sunflower lit the path

and as a tear rolled down my face

slow as a bullet

we embraced.