Passed this city and that one.
Passed familiar and unfamiliar and back to familiar again.
Tread on tired tires spinning and wheels spinning in my head.
Passed possible alien invasion and then arriving back at home.
Home?
And you'll remember the red dirt and the red cheery faces as onlookers tell you you're doing such a good thing and the red red red in our stomach telling us no, this isn't the way it should be.
Red stop lights keep you from returning south, impeding your movement, stuck in hot pavement, dust storming about as you search for what you found.
A glimmer of when the world was like cotton but our minds were clear.
You'll reach across yourself into the well of public opinion and pull out the mask of happy faces and walk on into your new life.
Forgetting joy.
And infinity.
And wine in chipped coffee cups and cigarettes bought in secret in the dead of night and songs that are too painful to bare and floors that feel like a feather bed and touches that leave no need for a heater and the joy that you forbid yourself from feeling.
And me.
Forget me, too.