run from the words that are hanging around the kitchen corner with the lights off at 4 am with cartoons and little voices beyond the yelling and the rest
run from the memories of those days when you were that little boy waking up in his room not knowing if he should come out
run because you can’t hide or smile and shrug and pretend to forgive and forget
no, not that
run to the love and those places between the letters and stories where there was
nothing but her love and the promise of better days and pale blue and blonde curls and all the inescapable girlish inexpressiveness
nothing but that
where are you?