37. park street

The Park Street lights wink overhead
like miles and miles of champagne bubbles.
There is no way for me to comprehend
that we will never stop on the side of this road again,
that we will never again watch the street vendors
try to sell us devil horns “for a Christmas photo.”
That the entirety of my life cannot be lived
between these white corniced buildings a century old,
nor in the sleepy suspended space you feel in your lungs
after you have been laughing without knowing exactly why.

And I know a year from now I will not speak to you
except in biannual “how are things?”
and social media favorites,
and I know tomorrow the night will fade
into blurry images coffee-stained with nostalgia,
but for now we are here,
though we may not remember where we are walking,
but we know that it’s home, and for now,
at least, that is enough.


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