Like There Was No Tomorrow
by Garrett R. Bruner
Could it really be only four weeks since you were right here?
Right where we left off, years and years ago.
It feels just as long, so long as the wait’s now the only
thing holding together the time we’d spent.
I’m back in this piazza, taking in the summer’s sun.
I’m being made light of my heart no longer
so heavy, knowing the years when we’ve been here
are right at hand. Your laughter comes to me
the same as ever, even when I never said anything.
Beside ourselves, we sat under those vines,
that wild tangle of summer flowers flowering overhead.
You just kept bursting into that laughter,
like giving music to jasmine, to the bougainvillea, like there
was no tomorrow to sweep us away.
Garrett R. Bruner is an archivist, archaeologist, and poet. For the past decade, he has processed ancient Greek script-related collections and serves as a site archivist for two Roman villas near Pompeii, Italy. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Wayfarer Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Wayne Literary Review, Shadowplay, and North Dakota Quarterly. He lives in Austin, Texas.