My face and the windshield shed tears of the past.

Wet rolling fields dance with the trees through the glass.

I return to a place I can no longer call home,

Those black clouds following wherever I roam.
 

I cut the engine as the clouds hurry away

For they know that here they cannot stay.

The caretaker hastily welcomes me inside,

But I want to go where I once did hide.
 

Though scared and alone, I continue to trudge,

The dews of midnight my thin shoes they smudge.

I sprint when I see the arch of the old bridge.

My beam of light stops underneath its ridge.
 

Before me I behold an assortment of stone.

I feel all the memories and start to groan.

There’s old bottles and cans we stacked on the sill

where the broken stone meets the slope of the hill.
 

This cavish hideout underneath this old bridge

Holds rocks, fishing poles, and an old light green fridge.

My little pink bike accompanies a book,

Pots and pans where Sara would pretend to cook.
 

But this place, though truly mine, I cannot stay.

I would sleep here like we did back in the day,

But sadly the clouds have found me once again,

Saying: “No longer your home, like it was then.”
 

Because this is no longer my home.