The sun begins to slide into the horizon just past six. Eighty degrees plummeting into a slight chill that reminds me the month is ending. Hot coals, shaking embers. The interstate is haphazardly littered with other cars as I make my way west into central. Exit. Overpass. Slowly brake. Left turn. Right turn. Park. Kids line the sidewalks disguised and cloaked. I'm listening to music that reminds me of you even though I don't want to be reminded. It's been a year. No give or take, 365 days exactly this time. I can't even remember the last conversation we had because I don't even think we had one. Get out of the car. This doesn't feel mine. My cell phone stays quiet. No invitations. Greet my grandmother. Undress you. Undress me. Fill the bowls with candy. Repeat. It isn't as cold as it should be. Sweat. I wait for you outside your house and I know that it is a mistake to meet you. Because now every time feels like the last time. But this time it really is. Sit down for a few minutes, please. Just please. Find my car keys. Drive home. Look for something better. You don't deserve to have it but you do. Sometimes I still see her. I want to miss you but I am forgetting. Your voice, hands. Home. A dismal turn out. In bed I think of you. Restless. Fading. The line of memory receding until I no longer recognize you. Do you think of me? Do you? This is all I want to know. Still. Miserably, still.