Yes, I am here, within the city lines of your hometown.
I have stitches made of six months
and someone else
on my mind.
I do not remember your number.
By most counts, success.
I wonder if these stitches have unravelled a little
upon consideration that this street could be
where you first learned to ride a bike,
where I can find your favorite meal,
where you paced back and forth when we fought over the phone
that one time past midnight; last chances and we both knew it.
This place shaped you, gave you your manners,
protected you after we stopped talking, yet -
with the sun on my cheeks and my two jackets
tucked away in the trunk -
your hometown stays impartial.
I think about whether that is also how you are towards me now.
I used to be in disbelief that you could be so blasé, so carefree,
but somebody had to be the real adult here.
Going at seventy-eight -
roof down, hair loose, and a friend
mindlessly switches between radio channels.
The view bears a clarity that never existed between us;
I see pale-blue mountains and snow-dipped trees for miles
while we struggled to have vision, to have security, that lasted
past a week. If we were still in each other's lives, you would
be showing me all your special places. For now,
all I have are clues from the sleepy conversations I could not
erase. These uncertainties magnify
every point I stand on.