Coming home, I feel I’m a fan
on the stage of an amped up rock show
in front of a hyped up crowd, about to dive –
will you promise to catch me
before my jump turns into a fall?
Carry me over your wavelike faces,
your hands holding me, floating me over to
the dance floor with you
all.

No.
No hope of me going back.
I won’t go “back” for anyone.
Anyone.
I refuse.
And it would be no use,
me turning to a pillar of salt
for you.
I can’t turn around – it’s too late.
You may call it fate
or blame the choices we’ve made,
but I’d rather say
I’m pressing onward, facing forward,
because, friend, you know hope never lags behind.
It’s what’s ahead, in front – it is the way,
and I’m walking it.
If intersections are in our future,
I can promise it won’t be because I went back,
but because you went forward
and finally caught up.