waiting on its arrival, there it was outside. the foliage shaping its face and arms, heat permeating from its spirit. knowing not how many times it had been there before, or peeked through the panes of glass. panes stood tall and wide and smeared with prints of fingers, fallen & gripping against. pain, shining prints, swirled, tightly wound. and emotions, a similar mess. and now, to go Home. To go, for once, to the place where headed. surreal, locking eyes with the one at the window. water runs down burdened cheeks. laying out paths, traces. and rose-colored creases, an old familiar grin. chagrin. purple-patterned quilts, woven by those who knew the one and saw the prints. and cried the same. pianos reeling melody around eardrums and they have burst. bleeding out memories, plastic memories. in the yard, by the fence, by the old sign, in the middle of my life. what has set me free has been inside this box. and, suddenly out. everyone is breathing heavy and fogged. and there you are, just the same as you were. and hopefully, for a while, to bid adieu. wring out heavy lids, get some sleep. there is only that.