215/365

there’s only so long you
can burn trauma as fuel
before even the smoke and ash
have long since blown away
and new seedlings litter
the scars with a carpet
of optimistic foliage  

walking the street
in your nondescript neighborhood
to a friend’s house for beer, wine and darts,
the sun setting and the music
tugging at all the right chords.

i almost started crying.
not sure from joy or sadness
or from knowing that i’ll never
get this poem just right.

nostalgia is a gut punch
soothed by hope and gratitude
that we are somehow still alive
and full of every idealistic promise
we ever made in the darkness when alone.