We lived in California until that summer, from down south. We didn’t want to move. Least ways, Mammie and Mama and Papa were reluctant. We kids were as excited as you would be if you heard the news you were going to ‘paradise’, where the rain fell, where there was no drought, and where we would have a place of our own—with air conditioning for summer, and heaters for the winter.

the same place, a different scene
the same place, a different me
an older me

the same trees, a little taller
the same trees, different leaves
a newborn green

the same stones, a little smoother
the same stones, different tones
worn down, turned over

the same sky, different clouds
the same sky, different sounds
chase the pictures out

the same sun, the same shadows
the same shadows, different patterns
woven on the gravel

the same grass, the same color

it's too late to count the sheep
it never helps me doze, let alone sleep

it's too late for anything, it's just my fate,
these past few nights have been this way,

the aching pain in restlessness
the fears when I'm alone. I am remiss

with battles of every kind
not the gory but the unwise

i'm the one who's lost and grimed
but you're the one who left my life

we had, in a way, been very good friends
from the start to the end

we understood life, or

This is just another night.
I am alone in my room, starring at the dark sky through the window. Moon is hiding somewhere I don't know, maybe too lazy to just pop up in the sky. I'm walking downstairs, house is actually empty. The only sound I can hear is my footsteps. I don't know where they are going. Or maybe I just don't care.

Suddenly night is calling me. I don't know how to accept yet to reject, but I know night is calling me. It forces me to do something. Escape. Run. Or simply to make this is not just another night.