It was the day after Paula's going home party. Helium worn away, one lone white balloon now shrunken and flightless, sits on a hedge looking like the bleached skull of a sacrifice from some pagan ritual.
Even in my better moments there was a certain degree of fatalism, a lament for the finite.
How many more kisses, late nights spent wandering the back streets behind the Pantheon. A march ending in predawn eggs cooked to a Zoot Sims record.
Older and wiser I no longer wish for peace but now aspire to think only of what I have, not how long I will have it.