Behind us, behind the sun, stands our homes,
the ones we grew up in and grew out of,
made jokes without context, laughed without contest.
In these homes we laid roots, deep and complex,
our arms, our branches, raised to grab what we were promised.
We don’t look back.
We can never look back, or turn to salt
to stain the dirt we drag our feet through.
Somewhere north, there’s a town that’s a bad idea, but we’re still driving.
Believing any semblance of stasis is deceiving
when it’s the fight that’s the basis for breathing.
How long can youth, can fire, still burn,
running from memory, lightly lit like ash,
running low on fuel and time and cash.
Somewhere soon, there’s an end that we imagined when we first felt it:
The red and warmth of youth in our cheeks.
But magic is only magic until you know the tricks
and with each drink we take grows a gnawing we can’t shake,
that behind us, behind the sun, we were tricked.
But we’re still driving, somewhere, to that imagined end, our great pretend.
Somewhere north, to the town that’s a bad idea, because it’s an idea we know is ours alone.
Image courtesy of Stephan Geyer on Flickr