She put on her old playlist.
Nights of swaying, convincing herself not to purge the memories that had laid near absent in her mind.
Flashbacks to the city, the block, roads taken, and state lines crossed.
Every letter dotted, every line meandered.
As the distant songs of another era echo, her hips start to sway.
Her feet fight to find the beat,
Her mind convinced she’s doing it wrong, but her body canvasses naturally.
Roaming as if on autopilot.
Searching for her lost love.
Waiting for the next argument to bring him into her rearview.
She was convinced she flowed with the moon, he said she shone like the sun.
She knew him as her world,
only to notice him in the form of shadows.
Quick glances.
No hellos.
Laid in each others’ arms over many lifetimes.
Returns, departures.
Dependent on some old lucky streak of generational tradition.
She doesn’t want to be second.
She already missed the mark.
It could’ve been her.
Many no’s later.
She wishes she took that ride and ordered his strawberry milkshake and her mocha iced coffee.
Maybe she would’ve been the one.
Now in distant songs, she remembers.
Absent memories erupt into fruition.
Now she sits amongst the echoes of him.
Waiting for the final episode.
Try again, for him this time.
Wants needed, and needs restricted.
She knows.
She waits for her turn to come around again.
petrichor - archive 