in the knowing. an intimacy

and always you go back,
perform a ritual of the return,
but each time is not the same.

the walls too full to absorb any more
and if you didn't already know them
off by heart
you'd miss the miniscule rearrangement
of geographies
and the threads thickening
and thinning simultaneously,

a gradual sideways movement
and a metamorphosis
to become that which we touch
so that I'm able to see with my eyes closed

my father's memory
of the angel at the foot of the bed
standing alone in the dark
between the pillars holding up his world
that are stronger now than they ever were,

see your sun rising on tiled rooftops
golden from your spot halfway
between earth and sky
on an april morning bursting with potential

and know that if you could live it all again
you would rewrite the ending
and find the words for what you never said.

always you go back,

perform a ritual of the return,

but each time is not the same.