(Something I wrote in August this year)

It may just be tonight.
One night where I know I cannot breathe.

The unbearable screech of silence bounding off
the walls
is what it is.

That bridge, the water, the old winding street –
I begged you to take me before it got too dark.
I had to take a picture.

We got there too late.
Nobody could tell if it was Lombard Street, or just some
straight avenue in the parade blueprint.
We got there and it was dark.

I won’t go north after Thanksgiving.
It gets too cold and then life takes over.
I have letters to write,
white envelopes to open. And seal. Open. And seal.

I hear my grandma’s sleeping on my bed now.
I can only sigh with relief.
That it’s not time yet. Because I can’t let go.

Anywhere but here.
One day geography will wash my lifeless body up the shore.

And tonight;
tonight is one of many nights where
I cannot breathe.