It's the same place, but not;
some one else's face
is traced in the mirror you nailed
to the laburnum tree
so you could see yourself coming,
while sensation burned through
to the back of your eyes.
Break into a run, while shouting "I'm here."
Hear your own lies while stumbling on.
Spot the broken twig, flattened grass,
faint smell of the wind he passed.
"a curry man?" "No! Too fruity."
"Maybe figs or dates."
He was hurrying towards his fate
just as you were but unlike you
he won't stay.
You found your place, your face fits
while he still sways along a dusty road,
littered with hope and expectation.
Indian take away, exotic fruit,
are fuel to his restless soul,
till he finds what suits.