I wanted to decide on you. You, in a cloud of cigarette smoke which wasn’t your own. It was all supposed to mean everything, to be jazz, to be blues, to be wild and untethered. As decisive as light, floating like your eyes, sifted like grain and anchored in depth. Seasons came, nights passed in forgetting, beloved bones yellowed in a foreign city, disintegrated into dust, and strings sat unstrummed. 

Now you ask me when I’ll return and I don’t know how to tell you that I won’t. 


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