This beautiful weather on the second and third of September, as I’d describe: crisp pre-autumn in the Mid-Atlantic region, despite a nightmare September 1 of hurricanes tornadoes and flooding. It’s the weather of memory, and makes me consider the split second after the departure of a warm touch. Or the touch itself, when it is held a split second longer than you expected, or lands on a little more surface of parts of the body you want but do not mean to disturb.
Is there anything more exhilarating than the moment a desired touch departs and you know to look for it again, but only as chance as strange weather. Sure there’s some predictability but I don’t believe in rain dances.
The touch will come back. Finger tips on my palm, an unexpected linger. Even a tacit glance. This is the weather of the split second when skin separates and understands the remnant victory is in the very remembering. Because it is not a scar, it will not be permanent, and because it is not a mistake, it will not be mistaken.
A perfectly inviting pre-autumn day like a cool inhale after bodies stop moving against each other and merely take in the pleasure of having heard the same frequency in the air.