I was on side of the street when it happened, you were clung to his side like that was where you truly belonged and your hair was shorter than last years pool of auburn locks to your waist. The flowers in my hand fell to the ground in a loathly turn of events, the glows of red and yellows from the streetlights reflecting off of the ivory skin as you looked up at him like he was it for you. And I wouldn't believe if if I hadn't seen it. A contrast to our august nights in autumn at my sisters villa in Italy ; the wine and music coaxing you to me underneath the awning in the back yard overlooking the vineyard. I remember the glass in your hand was just as empty as your words when you leaned against me in faux-glee as you told me you wished we could stay in that moment. My sister and family couldn't pry us away from the backyard, and I suppose that is just how these things go ; it seems surreal until you're standing on the New York City streets next to a puddle of flowers drenched in the rainy sidewalk, her favorites... yellow lilies.
