it ended
a milestone, a fire-
work without the blast
quiet, underwhelmed I fell
asleep
but this end,
the bittersweet replica of
the memories and books and words
of crowds and hallways and people
whose faces pass and pass and pass
this end, it has to mean some-
thing, thing that I can't hold nor revisit
but the thing that sinks in the encrusted
bit of my heart. The thing that will manifest when
years down, in a new home, or a new country or a
new mountain. This thing, the four years of life here,
there, nowhere, is, in many ways,
everywhere.