PROGRAMMED AFFECTION
by Todd S

There we stood, counting stars as they fell around us
Reluctantly believing what we’ve been taught at home
And when the last star fell all was dark and silent
And became a memory I long to run away from

As we all already know, everything tends to grow old
Paper turns yellow, tears dry, bruises heal, suns set, clothes become too small
And yet, there is something that never grows old or dies,
Our past, and although we’d love to let it go

Once we turn around, there it is, staring us blank in the face
As if it knew we had just attempted to decease it
And renews its time on earth, until its centuries older, yet just as clear
As before we knew it would occur

And we eventually settle down, to the scent of candles, and the new approaching day
And we write letters of concave and convex shapes, sending them
To nonresidential addresses and hoping that the do get lost in the mail
Only to - weeks later - reread them and slap ourselves in disbelief of the mistakes
we made while writing them

Until, of course, the unanimous routine becomes invisible to the naked eye
As we’ve practiced it so much, we no longer can tell it isn’t original
And we repeat these notes of music, until - before our eyes - a melody forms
Playing in the background of the picture

Once this road ends, we find ourselves, not inside, but outside of the house
That we grew up in, reciting the following;
“I sure am going to miss this place,”
But never finding the words to complete the sentence

And as we walk away, stressful and discontent
We still don’t realize how much time we’ve wasted filling holes, and painting frescos
Rather than gathering our photographs turned faded nothingness
And making mental notes of places we have been