A return to aimless wandering
is a surprising side effect of getting older.
“Where” is not so important or even why;
what is will be, and what will not be, is lost.
Lost things can be remembered
and treasured without touch.
I will always remember something about you
even if just your sigh or laugh or hands.
So many storytellers swear by their processes:
drink, stand, sit in quiet, sit in a cafe,
travel, sit still, read voraciously, study,
and most of all, listen.
I stare at streetlights long enough
and they split in two, leaving a vision
of sunset straddling mountains and
skyscrapers. I hear music that may be wind.
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