Where We Stand
“I’ll always be above this line.
Here, the water is drenched in some kind of rust but,”
maybe it’ll be treated and if treated I won’t have to say
that being here drains me, but I can live here, and I can taste the water here.
Here, I’ll know where you’ll be, and you’ll always know
the sun bleeds orange onto the pavement. And
splotches of paint, end up where leaves gather on manholes, where
It’s just, sometimes, always, empty, by my side, but that’s okay since
I’ll always be above this line.
Below this line, is where I’ll be.
Here. And I know that
I can see shades of orange, bleeding into the pavement;
loose splotches of paint from the bulbs, coming together,
the stars, the moon,
Every step echoes in a crunch as leaves break. It all molds,
My eyes shut tightly to let it all find me, a soft ebb and flow.
Then I stop. The streetlights flicker, and it leaves an afterimage.
It’s empty. I can almost see you.
I stretch my arms to find you, but when I open my eyes.
And then I remember, where you are and I’ll say,
“Below this line, is where I’ll be.”