I Didn't Live There

I cast my mind back
to a cornfield in South Bend, Indiana.
I realize now that
every day blossomed glory or disaster.

I was ripe with devotion then,
fireflies hung in our eyes.
We were 700 miles from home,
sloughing off cigarettes and pride.

I was only passing through,
could've landed anywhere.
Yes, I stayed a year or two,
but I didn't live there.

On the edge of spring
we settled on a rooftop in Manhattan.
Weary from traveling,
the soles of our feet were scored and blackened.

I was soft with elation then,
he was draped across my mind.
We'd drift down sidewalks at 3AM
soaked in bourbon and moonlight.

I was only passing through,
could've landed anywhere.
Yes, I stayed a month or two,
but I didn't live there.

The blood of time is on my hands.
Reveries dance through greyed vignettes.
Dissonance can drown these revelations now.
Evocations of the past are roped to what wouldn't last.

I was only passing through,
could've landed anywhere.
Yes, I stayed a week or two,
but I didn't live there.

I've never been as bold
as I was with him under that line of river lights.
I slipped my hand under his sweater
and sighed a slow and sad, "Goodnight."

I could never feel so sad again,
and it could never feel so right.
I could never feel like that again,
youth twists fear into delight.

I was only passing through,
could've landed anywhere.
Yes, I stayed a day or two,
but I didn't live there.

I am only sorting through
these shards of memory to share.
I really must be going soon.
You know, I never lived there.

Other people live in our apartments now.
They've rearranged our walls
and trampled hallowed grounds.