I've been one to run with the moon
so the world can't see the undoing
that has
become me.
Barbed edges frayed linings;
coupled with lipstick traces
spent gazes
is what comprises my countenance
these days.
I stumble by
while the world sleeps
remembering home
but all I long for
is already gone.
What I've come to learn is
looking back is a sign of weakness,
or so it is seen.
Yet with the volume
of a midnight prayer
or a smoke whisper,
everyone looks behind
with hindsight's fondness.
The trick's in not letting others see.
