I miss the rain, the looming clouds and misty ponytails along the morning bus rides; the spit from bicycle tires seemed so pure and timely, appropriate for my longing and warm enough for my yearning heart. I hope you haven't forgotten; forgotten my yearling eyes and fanciful yawns. I'll always be waiting by the wire, in hopes of hearing your tenor call my name. The mountains arn't as high as they once stood, though the glaciers keep time with the tears of spin-the-bottle and missed opportunities. I pray your love is as pure as I remember, and that your smile still heats the air of basement wanderings. Though we can't live in the breath of past pains, it's nice to know they are remembered, and that reminders only hurt initially. If your find the time, let those in heaven know your name and remind the garbage man that not all the trash should be dismissed. We all get soiled from time to time and my rag's still wet.
With love from the Grotto,
Stella
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