It’s been 22 years since we kissed for the first and last time. You took your son and got on the plane. I put away songs I’ve never listened to again. Just recently I gave away the last thing I had of yours: a book of Shelley’s poetry with a bookmark at your favorite poem. Does that stone still fall to the earth when you let it go? I told you I’d love you till it stopped. For all I know you could be right down the street. I’ve mostly let you go. This city seems so unlike you, yet while I’ve kept moving, you’ve stayed. Perhaps you found what I’ve been looking for. Perhaps one day I’ll find it, too, someplace where there are fewer lights.
22 February 2021
Las Vegas, NV