I must admit:
I am unwilling to give
even a hint of consideration
to the thought of being anything,
anyone other than that brilliant,
briefly lit comet,
hurtling toward home.

It matters not
where I land,
or who takes pictures from the ground.

This is only a trip.
This is just a ride.
So fleeting, so fiery,
that you wouldn't want to pause to wonder
what you look like up there,
or else you might miss
the very things that make
your fires unforgettable
and your blast burn true.

The city is sad tonight,
these desolate roads
and dimmed headlights
take me outside of myself,
transport me to times unknown of you,
roaming down sidewalks at 2 a.m.
before I knew the rhythm of your step.

The streetlights glow orange,
coloring the sky and masking the stars,
moisture hangs heavy in the air
and it's as if I've come to know
my own personal rainstorm,
bathed in sun-fire light
and trapped in longing to see
where this long road has led.

This city is lonely without you,
a place of barren experience,
meaningless hustle and bustle,
full of gray words and gray suits
late to work in an unfulfilled place,
and so I take the short way home,
determined not to bask in this city's sadness,
aching to be in the same place
as you should one day be.

I love you
in many ways,
not just
one.