I walked up to my window.
Lifted myself onto the sill.
I flew out into the open,
over trees and fields windmills.
If I had stayed you would have left me.
Without saying where you’d go.
Stepping stones have no memories.
They’re only minerals and bone.
So here we go.
Love is a lying child.
Love is a burning building,
burning into the ground.
Love is a red balloon.
I flew 7 miles over.
All the land that I had known.
What a terrifying feeling,
every hole was someone’s home.
But here we go. …
I came home that Sunday evening.
My dog asleep is all I found.
Fear is his only feeling,
he misinterprets every sound.
There’s a certain kind of failure
that happens only in the shade,
of a purposeful disaster,
catastrophically handmade.
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