Aurora Avenue


The open sky is my umbrella.
It's November again and nothing has changed.
Her grey body blends into the overcast shade
that looms over my sleepwalking city.
The paved sidewalk is worn down, since I saw it last.
More people have dragged their feet down her alley.
We've walked the same trail.
I imagine the water below still tastes like panic and salt.
One year later, and I wonder if I'll see the same man
who saw me through prison bars.
I'm visiting;
like old friends she holds me in her arms as if to apologize.
The fumes of passing cars press against the surface of my nostrils.
Exhaust.
We reconcile;
my hands ashy from her unwashed rib cage I once prayed over.
Too many people, grieving on the morning commute to the work place.
I used to be infatuated.
The red haired firecracker, loose at the ankles,
shy forearms that hid underneath sweater sleeves.
Autumn was never her favorite season.
Didn't like how everything had to die,
falling in slow motion,
watching themselves degrade to lighter than dust.
Moonlight dips her empty cocoon in silver.
The corpses of decomposing take out boxes
chatter among themselves, giving me something to listen to.
She is never silent,
haunted by the pitiful gasps
of those who sighed her name with a last breath of relief.

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