matt pond PA

October 30, 2018

Satellite Sweater.

Fall is the reason we first found each other. After our summer of freedom, we grew cold. You glowed in your sweater, a history professor without a curriculum. Accordingly, I wanted all your knowledge and at least half of your warmth.

Do the trees shed their leaves for us so that we can get a better grasp of the dwindling sun? The light comes down at a lower angle every day, upon gilded cheekbones that barely tolerate me. I promise that I won’t take anything for granted like I did when we were drinking cold red wine and swimming in the Esopus. In the lush valley of rushing water, where we could retreat and still be victorious.

If I were unselfconscious and unafraid of sarcasm, I would say that the fall is supposed to bring us all closer. A cheap excuse, a platonic pick-up line to get to the truth.

My heart is a shitty map. A badly folded collection of dimming fields and faces. New Hampshire, Philadelphia, Florida, home. I dwell in a diminutive brick fortress, caffeinated and pacing the scullery. From parapets, I type to the window panes, the rain soaked streets below marionette power lines. I sing to your satellite dish sweater and all that it contains, all your similar guts and strange brains.