if you stay here they might talk
And these nights
you only want to hear someone say, Yes,
I think of these things, too…
— “Henry’s Song,” Beckian Fritz Goldberg
Today you look out over the city, breathing in the smell of grass and wet stones.
Such a strange thing to notice, the smell of wet stones. A longing, praying for rain.
You’ve been at this exact place a few times before, breathing, wishing.
The wind whips against your face, cold and sobering. You will never be alone here.
Even the wind knows your name.
You take a breath and close your eyes. If you leaned forward, you would fall,
tumble into the grass and weeds and gravel of this place you know. Home.
Will it still be home when you leave?
You watch the streetlights flicker in the distance, try to place yourself,
find your porch, your tree amidst the darkened roads. Your fears
lay heavy on your tongue. And you shiver, swallow them back.
Step down from the ledge. Forget. Wonder why silence always speaks