Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room. Half
illuminate a face before they disappear. You breathe in forty
years of failing to describe a feeling. I breathe out smoke
against the window, trace the letters in your name. Our
letters sound the same; full of all our changing that isn't
change at all. All straight lines circle sometime. You
said "Somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts to all
the tenderness we've broken or let rust away. Somewhere
sympathy is more than just a way of leaving. Somewhere
someone says 'I'm sorry.' Someone's making plans to stay."
So tell me it's okay. Tell me anything, or show me there's a
pull, unassailable, that will lead you there, from the dark,
alone, benevolence that you've never known, or you knew
when you were four and can't remember. Where a small knife
tears out those sloppy seams, and the silence knows what
you silence means, and your metaphors (as mixed as you
can make them) are linked, like days, together. I still hear
trains at night, when the wind is right. I remember
everything, lick and thread this string that will never mend
you or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor, or the
fire-door that we kept propping open. And I love this place;
the enormous sky, and the faces, hands that I'm haunted by,
so why can't I forgive these buildings, these frameworks
labeled "Home"?