It ends. Good thingsalways end terribly,at dawn in his armswrapped, silentlyor— late in the nightin unchartered apartmentsor hotel foyers, over a fight. It ends. Good thingsalways end terribly.

So old were you, Grammpa— the last time I saw you, anaemic You looked like the monsoon in my town.

i reach the perfect cube, and wait forsomebody to pick the phone back at home.

Don’t I remember those rustic evenings, now buried under a thick shawl of futile memories when you and I, walked and talked and melted into the lurid nightfall? I do.

My town of clouds and riverOf terrifying minds and young dreamsStreets with some peopleGood people smilingTrain tracks of dreamers,High, happy, celebrating—Us, themselves and the beauty.