by Richard M. Johnson
Despite the playfulness that returned to your eyes the last time we ran into each other at the yogurt shop. Despite the warm hug you gave me as we parted ways when your friends decided it was time to go. Despite my best friend asking recently, if you came to me and asked me back, would I go with you? I had to say no. I can tell neither of us has grown. Not significantly enough, over the last five years, for the old flame to reignite and flourish under the dark cloud I shiver beneath every time we are in the same room together, alone.
Richard M. Johnson, who turned fifty-two on August 3rd, is thinking out of turn again.