Light This City

Every city is a ghost town where I see remnants of us that will never fade because they’ll never
see the light.
The streets remember our footprints, maps made in sand and snow, where we walked, side by side.
The things we told eachother, piece by piece,
as it comes back now, revisiting
I stopped searching for our missing ending.
There are no dry winds carrying torn pagesdown abandoned roads, fluttering, caughton telephone
poles, waiting to be foundand read aloud. Even if I, alone, returned to those streets, deceased, I’d be choked by theashes of long-combusted paper dreams.
You are being immortalized as I speak,
not just in words, but a reality I live in
my sleep.
Last night, I dreamt you followed me.
I can feel you always close, sometimes
a day ahead, or two behind, hunting down
a similar night, different from the next.
I can still hear your voice in air currents
you’ve since left and I’ve just found
I told you to never try and find me,