I withdrew from the race miles and miles ago, yet these old haunts remain in my peripheries. You smile, and I falter.
I wonder about those decayed days, when our hearts were younger than our faces and the world seemed never-ending. Those yellow fireflies glowing in the darkness against picket fences – un mémoire that remains seared into my mind’s flesh.
My writing, much like my storybook reveries, has not aged. It is almost dated, complete with the inaccuracies of my very childhood. And yet I return, to these same boulevards and a winding crescent that leads back to a house of violence and a lack of love. For I have not found peace, and my sanity craves it.
Every heart can become unbroken – I believe it so.