Edgelands

1 February 2018

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.

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