Even these shirts remind me of you. The colors. The sizes. The semi-permanent creases from having been folded too long, worn only once.
I'll pack my bags, in anticipation, and make a checklist of things that need to be done but probably never will.
This is where I'm going. Even this unfamiliarity reminds me of you.
Maybe I'll find you here. Boston in the fall. A sight I hope to see this year.
You can meet me at the station, then we'll walk, side-by-side toward the cacaphony of autumns colors, leaves crunching underfoot, hearts entangled in two lives that shall never be. One.
