olive
“one, two, three..”- you say,
as you count the
oval olives in your plate
i trace my hand across
your face as we make
our promises to stay
here comes a drop,
followed by a drop
slowly blurring
the view from
the window
the greens of the
meadow are no longer green,
just a dull shade
blending into the fog
the brown chair
against the
olive wall
my hand in
your hair and
the nearing fall
slow down,
please, i am not
ready yet