I worry this is transient.
That I am just
some stop along the way,
some crumbling town
where you will stay
for the time being.
Nothing illuminating
happens in this place.
It’s only brick cafes
and brambled gardens.
At our beginning, it may
feel like home,
not despite the overgrowth
but because of it.
You might find comfort
in each sleepy shop
where you’ll sip caffeine like water
and thumb through dog eared-
mug-ringed books.
Likely you’ll go for long,
meandering walks
on which youll recite poetry,
smother wild thoughts
and pace
pace
pace
until you’re thoroughly lost.
On a night of lightless pace,
you’ll first catch the
underlying decay.
A crackling hum of
brick degrading,
cafes latching,
and brambles choking
petaled necks.
It’s an audible rot
that’s always playing
just beneath false
ambiance.
This background creep
is why you’ll leave-
a sound so
malefic and invasive.
You’ll depart unnerved
and reembark for
your final destination,
which I imagine as
verdant, rolling, and free,
where new and old growth mingles
in a singing canopy.
Me-
I’ll be here crumbling
and wondering
where you went,
if you’ll visit,
and if you remember
this place fondly.
pm poetry 