The bar is around the corner, the walk short. The evening bursts around you like an open window, ajar to fireworks but quickly closed. You return home well before its time.
There's an open loop in a quiet corner of your chest. You itch to close it. He says maybe Los Angeles.
You think maybe you close your own loops.
The forecast says sunshine and summer heat. Your station wagon is parked on the corner.
Everything is better than it's ever been.
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