When I left you the first time
Your sounds and smells still tingling on my face
I thought, ‘this is the last time’.
I turned my back on your skyscrapers
Your pillars of concrete, layers of living solitude
Your intricate network of getting from point A to B.
And I thought, ‘this is the last time’.
Then, when the sun of my new/old home lost its dazzle
I remembered you more fondly, missing the extreme disastrous
dizzying anticipation of your changing seasons.
I missed the way your trees stood stark against the winter cold
impressing no one, then suddenly one day burst forth in luscious clumps
as if to say, ‘hey, did you miss me?’
I remembered how, overnight, in an instant,
Flowers would show their shy faces and grin at the sun
And I couldn’t believe that ‘that was the last time’.
Closing my eyes I could feel the cold, clean frost
Playing on my cheeks and eyelids, turning my nose
into a red popsicle right there in the street.
‘Was that really the last time?’
Driving to work, in an endless fugue,
I yearned for the crunch of boots on crackling leaves or new snow
or searching my pallid reflection in the train door
For something, anything
When I left you the first time I was glad for it
When I returned to you I was gladder still.
The other day, I stepped off a bus in a busy street
onto your crowded pavement and I felt, inexplicably,
You make me feel so fucking forlorn
and I love it.