This A Fire Door Never Leave Open Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room. Half illuminate a face before they disappear. You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling. I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name. All straight lines circle sometime.
Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving.
Someone's making plans to stay. So tell me it's okay. Tell me anything, or show me there's a pull, unassailable, that will lead you there, from the dark, alone, benevolence that you've never known, or you knew when you were four and can't remember. I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right. I remember everything, lick and thread this string that will never mend you or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor, or the fire-door that we kept propping open.