Could be the place where I am best portrayed, not placated in the summery night that ignored the fired skies, that pulsed harder than stone walks or forests at my toes. It could be the small piece of peace, precious in a city centered around strung wonders; how Christmas would laugh at the milky moonshine sunk around my feet. How memory replays and replaces mourning without a bated breath to bend back time.
It isn't sorrow under this blinking sky, shot by planes and island spires. This is what I missed. This heart of mine, this site of so much more to be said. If only love determined us, if only desire and not dank circumstance. And yet, in what was once severe oblivion, that pungent past is present and pulling at my insides, once maimed, once nicely numbed. So with it, chance. Or possibility. Roads kicked aside, run to dust, ravaged in the most remarkable of homecomings.
And still, however versed, however close to me I pull this night, I am unprepared for the weight of afterthought; I am unable to entertain more goodbyes.
