Right now, it is too early in June 

For the runaways to feel this akin 

to wait for moments 

That never ended up happening.

And it is too deep in the morning 

to look in the mirror and find 

A past version of me that 

Only ever wanted to be a runaway.

I wanted you to be the last thing on my mind

As I watched skylights burning holes in the night sky 

or rain on light rail windows,

Polaroids soaking underneath denim pockets.

I forgot what the frame of reference was 

on our way from Clarence Street.  

Our days are endless//our days are numbered.

As things change//do, not change 

Inside your small room 

Your records, your books,

For a brief moment, incomprehensibly 

I do not know 

For however long we meet somewhere.

Amid a prophetic dream

Like two lonely space pilots.

And the world outside

That makes you so mad,

And makes you feel like a somnambulist.

Even though it has now been a year or three

Much of the outer world and your room 

Has remained the same. 

The pastel afterglow 

From the tobacconist underneath your apartment 

Still, reminds you of how much you hate 

Someone kissing you in the dark.

I got so used to not getting to say goodbye

And with you pushing the distance

And the feelings you will not lay out

Half-hearing everything I said

And your incessant attempts at 

keeping us in time 

Which only made us fade out faster

Like lanterns in the night sky.  

Yet, with Eden in the background 

Underneath the shell-pink sky scenes

I feel like 

I would do anything

to be back 

in that room of yours. 

Later, 

if there ever is a later

I would not want to wake you up 

Only for you to reaffirm

What you always believed 

How heaven's only wishful.

Even after all this time

I am incapable of 

Not losing 

What is right in front of me.