No one is out but me and the cops and the stray cats. I want to walk until I've worn my shoes to the bone, out where there are no more flags or borders, just colors and smells on the sad summer breeze. I want to live in the arclite.
I don't know who I am. There's something in the refreshing pale green of Spring that I'm dying to see, to see the moss on limestone wet with Spring rain and to watch all of the little hopes push the mud aside and climb towards their absolution in the sun. Remind me, remind me again who I am.
I'll walk all the way home to you, when I know you, and I have a feeling that I won't even know to where I'm walking until I'm dead and gone, buried beneath the cedar tree behind your little yellow house. I've been rotten and I've been down, and I'd sell myself short for a last breath on white sand with the saltwater leaching up my socks, seagulls overhead and staring at the horizon that melts and melts into ocean and sky, knowing full well that I'll be exploding like a fusion reactor into that blue sunset as soon as I get the strength to close my eyes and accept what I already know to be true.
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