i / us

White dashes burn,

cold and calculated on the surface,

measuring the way to what is known.

Striking out along the bitumen, at a part of me,

little markers of memory

meant to guide, divide

those moving in opposite directions.

.

It’s beautiful there

back where the green holds sway, at least for now;

though I hope it always will be so.

But there is a painful whisper in retracing,

the familiar now divided

between the ‘I’ and the ‘us’ …

A stop sign waiting.

.

Certain turns turn against me –

a patch of grass, for a minute ours

now, unwanted, devours.

Not only with black, there is certainly light

that I would hold onto,

but I was always more for night.

Which we both knew …

.

…

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