8:15 on Tuesday: prose by Brian Miller

8:15 on Tuesday...

the sun, already making its majesty known, in the sky, passing through pink and orange, unveils a soft blue over the lush green canopy of the forest behind our house. pops and creaks of the wood deck, settling from an evening stretch, accompanies the twitter of birds, in a curious serenade to the new day.

a family of deer shyly poke their heads between trees, then cautiously step across the lawn to nibble at cast off grapes beneath the arbor that stands at the end of the brick path off the back of our house. at their nuzzling, butterflies stir from the vines, performing a dance, dipping and turning.

pungent coffee perfumes the air, rising in waves from my mug, as i draw its warmth through my fingers. this is the moment i realise i have forgotten you.

the sudden realization starts a hammer against the anvil of my chest, a great squeeze grips my heart, crumbling it like paper bound for the trashcan. i want to retreat to the bedroom, to curl on the floor beside the bed, still wrapped in my clothes, closing my eyes to see if i can find you, but i stay, fear of finding nothing pinning to my seat.

you are a fog, barely perceived, there one moment then gone. i tremble, unable to even conjure your face. the touch of your hand, i once relished, erased. all the words once spoken, lay in a jumbled pile in the corner of my mind. i am utterly alone, as the morning unfolds around me, anxious that may you have forgotten me as well at...

...8:15 on Tuesday.

~Brian