In the stick-count for the song of knowing you're gone, glancing up at where you lived when you lived here, I see you, suddenly alive and nearly smiling. Stop and hold my breath and watch the way you used to be. The full moon makes our faces shine like over-ironed polyester, then disappears behind the clouds, and leaves me under empty rows of night windows. We could walk to where these streets get pulled together—a blinking line with gravel shoulders squared towards an end. Where the radio resounds from doppling traffic. Where the power lines steal esses from the hourly news. De-pluralize our casualties, and drown the Generals out in static. We'd turn and watch our city sprawl, and send us signals in the glow of night windows. But you're not coming home again, and I won't ever get to say, "Remember how... I'm sorry that... I miss the way... Could we..."
