A poem for Boston

Boston is an old boyfriend

who I reminisce about often.

It’s a relationship made beautiful in the past tense.

At the time it was too dark to see my hand in front of my face, to see beyond next week, next month.

But here was a cold, winter bed of becoming, the sense of being unleashed upon a city where every face was a stranger, every night limned with the possibility of disappearing.

Here was joy in parceled out shiny moments, stored deep in the pockets, constantly brushing against the fingers, worn smooth by the physical act of remembering.

the quiet of snow, the damp quiet breath of summer, the sense of time slipping like sand.

I arrived heartbroken and left heartbroken and somehow that is a selling point.

There was something there to fall in love with.