Runaway

Is it love
or
is it rot?

We’ve got
six of one
and
a half dozen
of the other.

Do the months feel long, dear?

The tunnels are dark.
I didn’t see you coming.

That tracks.
There’s no light
at the end.
The trainwreck is pretty, though,
with horns in early morning —
ones I’m sure
you hear in dreams.

You’re the runaway,
but then found
yourself bound
to the tracks,
with no escape routes.

So we’ll cycle around
cycles abound
this treacherous town.
Moving, but stationary.
Uphill, both ways.

Meanwhile,
desire is festering
and guilt is glistening.
It makes me cringe,
but I can’t look away.

So I’ll keep checking,
and you’ll keep waiting.

Photo by Kari Shea