It is spring, not fall,
and yet still our
step
stirs up old leaves
fallen
on these blocks
before winter,
as if we -- like our
conversation
stepped back in time
to a place
only she can see and convey to me
through this weak
medium of words,
her long stride often
staggering
when she reaches a
particularly painful part,
the lowered volume
when it comes to the man
who had drugged her and raped her,
as if she still feels his cold hands
even now reaching out for her,
all these years
later,
all these miles away from the scene of the crime
a boyfriend to a her
girlfriend
who had persisted on seeking her affections
until she gave in,
only it was not enough,
not just the need for the act,
but the need to be
able to take it
anytime he chose,
put off by begging,
making her feel so
utterly helpless,
the memory of it,
stirred up with the leaves and dust,
her voice sometimes
indistinguishable
from the whisper
the leaves make as we
walk,
the past still there
in each staggering step.
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