the surface is always comfortable, clean. it beckons.
it whispers of good times, sunshine, name learning and freckle tracing and legend making.
you think: it’s been long enough.
you think: maybe I can go home again.
a walk down the street recalls nights you were infinite,
never doubting that first would be only,
incapable of imagining a heart that could beat so vitally between you could one day sputter,
could one day lie still.
the magic is dimmer now. the air seems older, stiff and stale.
the sky never glows red as it once did, full and heavy and threatening to crack open wide.
when the record store is gone you falter, you reel.
this place has been empty for a long, long time.
cobwebs in the corners, nary a trace of the sweaty fingers that had once intertwined inside.
nothing left but the dingy checkered floor where your blood had spilled red, then.
changing everything, meaning nothing.
the tears come fast, thick. suggesting other tears on other days for lesser reasons.
you turn, run, cursing the thought of the home this could never have been. there’s nothing here but sidewalk cracks and caving ceilings and ghosts.
and what can you build on a pile of bones, anyway?