I don't get to say what I want to say.
They graduate. Somewhere far away they're all drinking underneath yellowish sixty-watt bulbs maintaining thin connections through slim excuses. 26 months of service and you're out. She's done this before too many times and she still laughs to herself on the subway.
26 years of a life and she's old. Gotta marry, she says. We make jokes that might mean something but we're both tired so we stop analyzing and watch our mouths talk instead.
Graduation and the lack of a real job means that you're marooned forever temporarily, she said. Filling out job resumes and working at airports helping people help other people. Streetlamps at 3am make the river next to the highway turn orange-yellow, she says.
I keep silent because I can see her twisting her face around. After a while her mouth finally finds a smile and slowly brings it up.
Venus is sinking in the evening glow. it looks like you, you know.