Or else the fading. Morning, still imperfect, in spite of that fragile sun.

And all the things we no longer talk about. That we stick our hands in our pockets, smile our way through the lines.

Weeks with an ache in my chest; with the hole you left in my dreams. That the experts would call this escalation. Like the downed plane. The new year. Another few thousand kids with iPods and dog tags. With that same ferocious faith.

Like sidewalk chalk and your crooked rainbow. How, years later, you finally figured out what you were missing.



Previously Published in 3:AM

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