They say you can’t go home. But I don’t want to go home. All I want is to go back to a Sunday in April.
It was raining, and I’ve never smelled air that smelled like it did that day. It was a mixture of wet grass and roses and cold rain and strong coffee and you.
My face was cold and wet and numb – from the weather and from smiling.
And you were shivering but trying to act tough. Your hands were in your jacket pockets and you were trying to keep the conversation going, because neither of us wanted to get into our cars.
I didn’t want to go home then, just like I don’t want to go home now. I just want that perfect evening in April.