Halfway Home

I start walking—

no, drifting—toward the light pooling

at the end of the street.

_________**

I (was going to call it gold, but that’s wrong)

It’s more like the color of forgetting.

_________**

I (keep checking my hands, as if something’s missing)

have my rituals

keys, phone, silence.

_________**

Select “rituals.” Correct that. Superstitions.

Because really, I’m just

keeping the ghosts orderly.

_________**

I (am rehearsing a conversation I’ll never have)

murmur to no one in particular.

The words come out shaped like leaves,

thin, trembling, already half-decayed.

_________**

Select “murmur.” Correct that. Confess.

Select “no one.” Correct that. You.

_________**

I (should have stayed)

no—

I did stay,

just not where you could see it.

_________**

The pavement hums beneath me,

a slow, secret pulse,

as if the world itself is breathing shallow.

_________**

I (am fine, really, just fine)

drag my reflection across the shop windows,

each one a slightly different version of me,

each one walking away.

_________**

Select “fine.” Correct that. Almost.

Select “away.” Correct that. Still here.

_________**

And somewhere between the last step

and the next,

I forget what I was trying to remember

or maybe

I remember what I’ve been trying to forget.

***