I hate going to Walmart at night.

There are ghosts there.


The wind propelled a cart
behind the dust covered truck
and as I watched it sail
across the smooth concrete sea,
I was brought back to this place
in a different time.

I remember warm embraces
that seemed to last for hours
but were never enough.

I remember guitar strings being
plucked lightly as I resisted
the urge to ask you to dance.

I remember shopping cart barricades
and laughter and the complete
absense of the now constant worry.

(This was before I discovered
the constellations of freckles
that are splattered across your skin.)

I remember holding it together
during your salt-watery farewell
only to weep on the side of the interstate.

I remember when you offered
to walk with me to my hail-dented car
and joked about the mess within.

(Although you did not know it then,
I treasured every moment with you.
I loved you quietly and without question.)

Thinking back to that mess,
I think that I had more to offer you then
than I could ever offer you now.

(Well, unless you have a
sudden craving for bruised,
anatomical confetti!)

I am not a fucking bird.
I never should have travelled south.

Especially when I could have had you then.