A long hike in the foothills,
the sun so low it haloes the hills,
autumn falling, streetlights warming up.
Everything beautiful, better running away.
I’m running away. I don’t slide, don’t talk
or write letters and hope they go unanswered.
That’s the problem with goodbyes,
they’re terribly effective.
Baby, if I had a yes in my heart,
it would fill my mouth more often.
I’m swaddled by stories
that rock between tellings and
small, unmappable meridians,
toward love beyond love, light beyond light (et cetera),
but let’s tell the truth at the end this time:
I don’t want you to be alone anymore,
don’t want to be out of all this
and as senseless with life as we always were.
Failure is a one-act classic,
but we are always fond, oh-so-fond of it,
the genius of it all,
the genius of ourselves
and the way we pour ourselves out
and sometimes mean it.