I heard her call out my name in the darkness of morning, numbing the autumnal air. There she stood, two and a half years later, on the edge of my driveway. Paper perfect, she had written herself into my midnight haunts, and written herself out of my castle in the sky.
My heart billowed in the wind, hung left out to dry behind a home that was no longer ours. There I stood, leaning against the door frame, tracing my fingers along the cracked paint as though I could delineate the fragment in time when I lost you to my reveries.
And though we sat there on the porch steps and talked as though we were once seventeen, I found myself longing instead for those city lights that you never could fathom.