& Noah sings
leaving me nostalgic 
for a life that 
wouldn’t have been healthy 
(that by now 
probably would’ve killed me); but oh 
his words lay like 
homesickness on my heart, 
feeding some 
weird hiraeth-and-not, I 
howl along to music 
I couldn’t have come to love  
if the liquid of my history 
had kept on pouring out  
in-between home’s 
white & double-yellow lines.  
Instead I eye 
the creases developing (that no one else sees) 
& they’re fine with me; same as this 
silvering hair 
unspooling time like ribbons, 
like prayer-flags, like 
branches on the trees I’m 
here (did not intend to be) & 
I’ll keep on, carrying ghosts  
with me – worn-out pockets  
full of hag-stones:  
lockets for what’s wholly 
mine to hold 
memories & hopes so much 
tumbled glass, that frosted view  
a fog that gentles the edges 
of scars & makes 
a softer (if incomplete) healing 
to press against, for you.