Bright flashes of un-illumination spark against the night like memories, and through the cricket serenade I cannot recall what I thought to forget.
Rhapsody in blu(rr)e(d) reminiscence strikes an atonal chord.
[Roads {less} traveled need no light; my feet can find their way in the dark. I know this route by rote heart.]
Some things will always be familiar no matter how stark the change, though the glow – fleetingly lustrous – will forever be obscure.
“You can’t go home again,” said Thomas Wolfe, and it is not the place to which he refers.
I drive down dusty roads under moonlit fog, catching glimpses of my past, flaring against midnight ink.
Nostalgia in noctiluca noir.
It is the witching hour.
And in this moment, I am incandescent.
This: You can’t go home again… I am learning this the hard way, baby stepping. Growing. Thanks for being out here, Feve. L xo