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I.
He wants to travel, more than anything.
He wants to lose himself through the
antiseptic rush of an airplane.
Become unrecognizable in a place he’s
never been.
All of his faults burned away by the
hush of endless museums, the bright fire hanging on their walls.
Or else the fallen angel faces of strangers,
that might be enough.
He will be a stranger himself, a pair of lost eyes.
This is how he will begin.

II.
But later, when he looks at a map,
it’s mostly blank, except for the city he lives in,
the state. He tells himself this is enough.
This.
The sleepy haze of night and the absence of stars.
Startled tree trunks and air that smells like Christmas.
He knows where he’s going. He knows where he’s been.
Soon the edges of the horizon will lighten and
the world will warm up.
They will be expecting him.
But now, he’s just driving, humming softly along with the radio,
the road in front of him a perfect line through his heart.

III.
There are different kinds of leaving.
The dream echo of a train passing through his head,
the cool of her pillow when he puts his hand to it,
the flash of a light bulb burning out.
He can only feel it sometimes, the pull
slow and easy, but inescapable.
Soon, he’ll be going, and he won’t be coming back.





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