I am moving to a new town. A new apartment.
An upstairs. A white house. A two-windowed room.
I walked there this evening, wandered among the coloured houses (Cinque Terre…?). Stood before the door I’ll come back to each night starting sometime in the middle of June.
When I looked between the houses, down lane upon lane, I saw ghosts of some place I once lived…passed through…dreamed about. I cannot always tell the difference.
Stood by a pond my voice can reach across. Missed the lake.
I whispered, This’ll have to do.
I think it may.
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