No Longer

I took a wrong turn

and there it was.

The lawn has a child's bicycle now,

bright yellow,

too new,

too alive.

The new family's car

in the driveway.

My bedroom window

has different curtains.

I pulled over

and couldn't make myself move

for five minutes.

It's not mine anymore.

It stopped being mine

years before

we actually left.

The leaving was just

the official end

of something

that was already

dead.

But I'm still looking at it

like it owes me something—

like if I stare long enough,

I'll find the moment

it stopped feeling

like home,

like I can point to it

and say: there,

that's when,

that's where

it died.

The yellow bicycle

sits in the grass.

A child I don't know

will ride it.

Will have no idea

that someone

used to live there,

used to think

that was forever.

I drove away.

Took the correct route

this time.

But I'm still thinking

about that bicycle,

about how bright it is,

about how the new family

painted over my color

on the walls.