Because the ground set itself on fire, we walked about the common through tidal pools of spewing water and we spread candor as brushstrokes across the first thunderings of Autumn.
We spoke in tones as bleak as the asphalt, watched the crowds ebb and flow across a bridge that is not our bridge, but the bridge of the city’s dementia.
How we forget the ways in which our faces were touched, the way hands folded and unfolded under our chins. Parallel lines sprung from the voice shouting from these dimly lit sidestreets, we were both together and apart
from a world intruded upon, ransacked and left alone amongst the bustle of invaders and the fleeing of the flagstones.
What, then, are we but shadows of past mistakes? our tails extending past the evening, beyond the fading memory of who we once were.
And, again, we remain walking, moving and never speaking outside of our hurried speech. To race our tongues against daylight as the days stunt and sputter.