I cross the street before I reach that corn
where the awning sags like winter branches.
The wind holds a table by the light
where seeds were planted that I
can't uproot.
My boots know every crack in the sidewalk,
but I've been teaching them a different path.
The long way home beneath the bare October,
that's ten minutes I don't need to spare.
I'm walking on the other side now,
where your face won't bloom in the glass,
where the doorway
doesn't hold your shape
like fog that hasn't burned off yet.
Some nights I wonder if you take the long way too,
if there are streets you've learned
to leave alone,
if distance is a thing we both are planting in the same cold ground
apart.
I'm walking on the other side now,
where your face won't bloom in the glass,
where the doorway doesn't hold your shape
like fog that hasn't burned off yet.
The street
is just a street.
The door is just a door,
but I cross anyway.
I cross anyway.