Jan. 01, 2004 @ 10:59 p.m.

   The sun sets over the horizon earlier than normal, as the last leaves blow across our feet. Wiggling my toes inside my shoes, I shiver at the subtle wind that I’ve come to enjoy so much only because you sit in it with me as it blows. It overshadows the faint touch of the tips of your fingers running a slow race over my skin, over my dry, crackling knuckles that are losing the battle to the oncoming winter cold. The birds are leaving, answering the call from their silent, inner voice that tipped them off to do so with calm haste. I envy any thing that can work so strongly and surprisingly well with something it doesn’t even know how to control, consciously read or predict. If I only I could follow my gut as well as a wise bird, I could avoid the pain that I instinctively know you’ll bring. The sun always sets, the wind always blows and the flowers always bloom.

   “What are you thinking about?” You look at me with curiously peering eyes as if the thoughts that bounce around in the playpen on the other side of my eyes are made of pure, harvest gold.

   “Nothing.” Nothing that I want to share.