I climb the road back up to the river, 
Rounding the path that drinks up the rain, 
Which lies Across the street from the house with the fence
that is a mourner of the damage. 
The broken shingles glide off the foundation, 
The mailbox swings open
eating with out digesting
eating with out swallowing 
eating and erasing
what was once tucked inside. 
My fingers press the paint on the wall 
It chips, it cracks, chisels away from the familiarity
that is no longer concrete.
It finds a new home in the wind,
the intangibility caresses it's fear into comfort.

I sit down on the deserted land 
It rejoices the bare skin that it once called its escape
but, now those memories have dried into layers of dust.
And leaves it's mark, branded into me
like words my mother spit like fire. 
The green has escaped to the base of the river, where the kids still play. 
Made a run for it while there was time. 

"Get the f*** out you bastard!”
He says he's leaving nothing behind, 
Because there is nothing left for him there. 
Her words ricochet off the walls
hitting her from where they left 
Her heart. 
It beats in pattern untill it doesn't 
It peels apart layer by layer 
Untill there is nothing left to hold onto but herself. 
She lets it all go 
The mailbox, the shingles, the paint, the grass. 
The fence raps around
her holding her together. 

I cross the road back down to the river
Press a rock into my palms and I let it go.
Let it glide, let it ride the water, and forget it's alone.
With a splash it sinks and with a blink it's gone.