As we walked along the southwestern edge of Prospect Park, the wind swept passages from youth through our hair and my heartbeat hastened by an incalculable amount. Without looking at me, but at a group of teens walking by you said, do you know what my favorite album is? Of course I do. Of course.
We were kids then, barely 18, sat in your dorm room playing bishops, kings, and queens. You casually lit a cigarette and said, how about some jazz? You floated from the table as if you yourself were the idea, leaving behind only a ruby red lighter and a subtle trail of ash.
Then came the moment when the needle on the vinyl became a sailing ship, and I was struck with a nostalgia belonging to a time long passed. Oh, how the foolishness of one's youth assumes the gravitas necessary to merit the heart of such plausible depth! As you sat back down and Coltrane's hard bop birthed an urgency into the air, I knew I didn't yet have the language to ask you to kiss me.
Turning down 9th Street, you told me how you had finally proposed, and I marveled at how such yearning could hold it's structure even today.