North is the lake.
You are East, and I am West.
The sun comes begrudgingly to me as it falls from the sky.
I forget the last time I saw a moonrise,
but all the stories say fairyland is supposed to be
somewhere in the middle. that finding it is how
to rescue you.
but I know that is not the case.
There is no magic in the gunshots,
or the knife wounds, crafted between sweaty bodies
and strobes of light.
and maybe I have forgotten the coffee shops.
The art, the music.
But they are attached to a time that has passed,
that exists in memory, and they have been as forcibly taken away
as we have been coerced into our directions.
So I will look outside the confines of this city,
for further flung directions
running off your maps
and maybe the compass points will be different
the scale, less small.