Dion singing about runaway girls,
makes me want to pull my heart
tighter around the years, they pass.

Kisses fade into scents of lilac
where lavender used to be, where
there will never be roses.

I couldn’t bear apologies from
so tender a spirit, especially
for naught, such was her challenge.

I etch the horizon precisely where neon should be,
pretending there are bridges and stars hanging
in thin city air.

I’ve imagined myself as a silhouette on rooftops
blending with balustrades and fire escapes, in shadow
descending quietly.

To find her alone on Belmont Avenue, under streetlight,
in gentle snowfall, in warm rain, wherever her life
turned inclement.

And time is like an arrow struck from the quiver
of a rosined bow, approaching its acme.

…ask any fool that she ever knew …

© Chagall ∞

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