Apple of Eden

One day I hope we will meet again, not in the mist of a January dawn, but by where you last parked your car, and reminisce about that one reckless summer the train took us past our objective, before you went on to have your second child. All roads lead me back to there. Our conversations have perished. We have hoped in vain. You must have a lot on your mind, because I have a lot on mine. I always do. Ever since I left school it's been tough to reckon failure.

The rain here never seems to stop. It's as if the rain has no end. I wonder what the weather is like on the street where you're living now. You never said, but you lost your first son. I was told he drowned in the bath one evening. A bed was made out of the accident. You were left with the weight on your chest, the heavy feeling of loss wedged in your throat. I pick the stone from dark corners. Juggling the feeling of nowhere to go. Nothing can beat the music of home, where I found a place to put my poems. Tears replaced with a precious newborn are now Saturday bank transactions, money withdrawn from an addict's face during the sleepless months of unconditional love. We walk on the cobblestone. Our eyes lock on postcards from Egypt. Tongues weep silver flames. We are free from the ropes we were tied to. Here's mud in your eye. I've got mud on my shoes, as I make my way back. I remember the pain I can't forget, the pain I fear. As I'm swimming in the nostalgia of old photos I don't know how to feel.