I gathered my beach towel and book to go up to her sixth floor apartment. I looked up to see her lean over the railing and throw my canvas suitcase over the edge.
Still on that balcony in Vancouver
She is long lost in a black oblivion by now. Three years and seven months lost, as of today. And yet I can’t get her out of my mind.
Old flames can burn
Relationships in the seventies were like rugby scrimmages. We were all players and many players got muddied and some got bloodied.
The empty house
This is my house. I call it a lowly bungalow. Sometimes I call it a hovel. But it’s my hovel.