The Fourteenth Tuesday, We Say Good-bye.

damp

The cut of the hill

The some facade of the house.

The pachysandra

flatten

buoyant

in my empty till

They disappeared inside my own

I had seen him unshaven

whiskers

How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else?

He smelled of ointment.

he whispered

It felt as if I had a pit in my throat.

ribcage

his facecontorting like a baby who hasn't figured how his tear ducts work.

as if squeezed from a fropper

whisker

I blinked back the tears, and he smack his lips together and raise his eyebrows at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satisfaction for my dear old professor: he had finally made me cry.

Okay, then