900 Square Feet

I.
Day one thousand
eight hundred
and twenty-six.

At the end of Memory Cul-de-sac,
sits the once abandoned stadium —
with the black rose scent,
cold coffee, and bleached skittles.
We seldom visit this place,
though it remains haloed
several times over on our yellowing map.
I do find myself here now,
tracing the bolt etches of jagged handwriting.

I shuffle past unswept confetti piles
and crumpled band flyers that say
this place still thrives
on a new lease of life.


II. 
We signed a lease ten paces from the summit
of our rosewood anniversary.
I see it in the distance as I close
the heavy metal doors of the stadium
and check for stray remembrances
on the choppy sidewalk.

It sits like a glorified treehouse,
a habitable monument,
a testament of capitalism,
a towering castle.

We, the indoorsy explorers,
couch-surfing hitchhikers
have found nine hundred square feet
to put our names on.


III. 
Seven hundred days before,
we only knew of yearning,
nostalgic for a red ribbon finish line,
so we could finally —
finally stop running.

Run toward the same beacon,
instead of exerting every ounce of strength
running toward each other.

Forty-two days I am still reeling,
still clutching that weathered red ribbon
in my cracked palms and wondering
how the universe favored us enough
to lead us straight home
on our first trek into the concrete wilderness.


IV. 
Home looks a lot like diamond dust
that settles atop IKEA shelves.
It is the sound of motorcycle flatulence
in the dead of night like a cityscape lullaby.
It is the scent of steaming jasmine white rice,
cat-shaped rugs, a malfunctioning refrigerator light.

I think we have already begun
to vacuum-clean the dust without having
seen it shimmer in the sunlight and settle like snow,
already begun reaching into the hourglass
to keep the sands of time from falling so fast.


V.
Through these five years of falling,
of flying, of unencumbered free fall,
of the insidious fine, each falter, fail and fight,
you forget how small you started.

From a seed that fit snugly
in the palm of my hand,
you buried yourself, and grew roots,
grew branches that stretched every which way
despite not knowing what it is
you're trying to hold.

And I stand in your shade,
smiling with pride,
tipping a watering can over the parts of you
that I sometimes forget the rain
can't get past your branches to touch.
I have never been a green thumb,
but I hope it’s enough.