The Desert To Denver

Hope that I come back as a door to a room in the house that your mother grew up
in.
Hope that I come back as a light on a street that guides you home.
Hope that I come back as a timepiece tucked into the pocket of your lover’s
jacket, counting the seconds till you return (and I counted ‘em down).
Wish that I could have been the left lane under your car through the desert to
Denver.
Wish that I was the cell tower that connected your calls back east.
Hope that I come back as a thread that keeps the sleeve from fraying on your
favorite sweatshirt, to keep you warm when I’m not there to (and I’m never
there).
So resonate through my brain.
I’m so sick of feeling I’m resigned to never grow, just eventually fade back
into a greying residential cityscape.
So we fade back into what we know to be true.
Save me from sinking in this city.
Be the light that guides me home.