What Stays Behind

They asked when I'd visit,

and the truth wouldn't permit it—

I'm not going back.

Not because I hate that.

Just that some doors close

and you recognize the prose

of finality. You don't turn around,

don't retrace ground

you've already left.

There was a bar. A theft

of time. We'd wait there

for people who weren't there,

for anything to move us.

One drink. We'd choose us

a booth, stretch the hours.

Now it's a bank. No flowers

of memory change that.

Just a corner that's flat,

generic, efficient. I looked it up

(which I didn't need to—I'd give up

the need for confirmation).

That chapter's gone. The nation

of my younger self is closed.

Those people. That bar's decomposed

into something else. That city

became a place I carry. Gritty

details fade. What stays

is just: I don't go back these days.

Some places close.

Not the buildings. Us.

We close.