The crux of that smell I've torn down your home for.
The crux of that smell and your Confirmation and coupons.
The crux of that smell and the promise of twenty cents off.
Ah, inflation as you stand and your dress hangs off your breast. Outside, the wind might flutter the hem, reaching to be touched. I swear I would count the stitches through the hardest morning eyes, scared of falling back to sleep and holding all of you in for ten more hours. No water. No air. Just the sand of the cruelest myth. The one that brings you how I want you. Because all we do is sleep like june bugs whose legs are too long and excited, and we toss and turn ourselves in a dervish of sleep. I know these cuts are from you. You can't hide forever, though you came close, hidden behind those bricks and mortar, away from the arcs of light keeping us awake.
Yes, I stared at the small of your back religiously for a portion of that summer night that has become such a microcosm of the domicile you gave up and I dwell on. And you were gone until just then. This may be hard for you, but it's not killed me yet. A decade spent remembering you, and cold hands and the dugout where we held them, and your unaddressed letter (it was sweet). The circulation in my legs is gone, but I won't need them. All the shores I will conquer have come and gone, in more capable hands now. You'll find I am no ruler, though I have, with confidence.
