Nobody ever goes back

to where it started, kissing

cramped against trees behind

garages and shops,

on the corner of concrete and nature,

trapped on the border
of desire and the ecstatic,

those fires preserved

in scattered coded notes

in diaries from years ago

but what was urgent

and consuming then became
a memory, the past, the spark

you promised you’d rekindle

growing fainter as you stare

awake into the comfortable

dark. The edgelands of the night

are cold and sharp.