i have a headache that looks like tan shutters and a park three doors down.
it is the destination of a 12-hour heartbreak.
half a day’s drive is the same as days of walking,
my feet say they are willing to go the distance.
they’ve memorized the pavement on the highways that lead back to that old street, and to the bridge that holds so many of my final breaths.
old music i can’t listen to anymore echoes off the concrete of a bike path and returns to my ears in sound waves forming the outline of my tree.
past the coffee house is a bittersweet memory,
i feel comfortable in its shortcuts and crushed under the name it remembers me by.
birds on the crosswalk carry under their wings an homage to layers and elastic and sharp metal.
i stole an entire album and dedicated it to the self i left sitting in study hall.
cold basement walls stained metaphor red,
they’re so loud if you listen close enough.
the only sweet voices come from light years away, so many i can’t even count them on two hands.
i watched myself break so many things here, and they all still stayed in place.
the word home is defined by nostalgia as tan shutters and a pool in the backyard.
where i became a person is the same place i almost stopped being one,
where the lights in my eyes took their first steps.
i slot my feet into their footprints,
size comparison shows how many years they’ve been vacant.
i trust my feet when they say they remember the way.
I have. THE worst headache. It began immediately after I sat up from several hours lying down watching ‘The 100’, and has not waned after two hours and a huge dose of Excedrin. I may have to go away and be ded