We were together only a few times
after she moved to the place where the windows were dark
and she felt so alone.
She said she didn’t remember much
and I took that as her
at her most lucid.
We would share stories
a back and forth of
what we’d recently done.
This was of course
before I understood the melancholy of
where she would whisper the stories of times gone by
and I would counter with the things I thought meant little.
“I started to run”
“Yeah, I don’t like it.”
“But it’s good.”
“I think so.”
“It is. You can never stop now.”
“You mean in general?”