The console used to carry anturiums, the adobe kept me warmer, yet now the wall lined with shelves seems like graffitied charcoaled fences. I drag myself, jacking cars up, changing tires with a glass full of sweat. Until I am found.
I know leaving, and understand pain. No past is deeper than any wound. A room kept clean but unshared, is comforter that lost its fabric. A letter folded twice, left last night on tables is not departure -- but the corners where the body leans, slides down, losing touch of the watermarks and skin.
Searching, leaving are never new. Part of me stayed, aged in cradles hooked to broken ceilings, under screens to ward off bites, dangling my legs in coffee shops awaiting my latte, perhaps the only (in)difference you found. Toads sounding like cows during rains are still here, some frozen photographs above the panels.
The mind whispers, there is no coming back, as I walk down train terminals, past the church for the hopeless, the fire exit stairs of Langhorn, for you keep soaking your socks in the downpour and leave clean.
