Windows are down and gusts
blow back my hair.
An ancient breeze and Josh's cigarette is lit
and swells deep into my lungs.

So this is what it is like to come back home,
to a place we grew up
and spent days,
and hasty afternoons under trickling sunlight.
The old bench still stares
longingly at the Bay,
the seat where I first kissed Sarah
and felt the warmth of her skin
in November,
it was thanksgiving break.  

I dart my eyes from the ghost,
and back at the road.
And keep my ears sharp and alert,
hunting for another past
and a different memory.