October stretches out like a school-girl against a tree, waiting for the bus. The air is thin and stenciled with small leaves.

Last week I met some old friends at a philosophy conference over at the college. John spoke about intentionality, prudential ethics. His red hair, his glasses, his strong blue dress shirt. Afterwards, he told me, “You’re here. I’m glad you’re here.” And asked me to stand outside with him while he smoked. We went to dinner and then to the bar to meet his friends and played darts and drank Irish car bombs and at one point he put his hands on my hips and told me: “I hope you know you’re special.”

He was another man about to leave me, and so I thought of you, and our wise afternoons, looking at photos of my childhood and your junior-high sonnets. All at once I realized nothing stays.

“How are you?” I said the next day, when John met me for coffee by my house, before his drive back to LA.

“I can’t get my cough drop to stop sticking to the the wrapper, if that’s any indication.”

“you should put it in a sauna,” I said.

“That’s a good idea. that’s a really good idea.”

We had coffee and then he was gone.