There are no words
No pictures
Nothing concrete at least
As if we were afraid
That if we believed
And made something out of it
It would have been stolen away by the breeze in the night
Just as well
There’s nothing to look back on
But memories
Why hold on to memories that two have once shared
When one
Had decided to give away the possibility of ever making new ones?
Looking around
It felt like a dream
And like most dreams
They’re forgotten in the morning.
And maybe I’ll sleep at the station because there’s nothing to go home to but an empty fridge and some stale mayonnaise. And maybe I’ll make friends with the guys sleeping under cardboard boxes and newspapers and we’ll discuss what it means to love and to live. And maybe I’ll wander the city, one lost particle in a dust storm of Mondays, late nights and reports due yesterday. And maybe I’ll get on a plane or a ship and get lost in places I’ve never been lost in before. And maybe I’ll keep my phone on me in case you call. And tell me there’s something to come home to.
Buddhist
