Before It Woke

We left town before it woke. Before dawn could caress the sky in in shades of orange and pink, before the road became an amalgation of noise and movement. The stars having been plucked from the sky, the dark blanket of night hid our exuent. The occasional light from the street or a house guided our way, and the black windows of buildings I had memorized gave a vacant goodbye.

It was the last time I would see this place while it was still home, so it was ironic that the last time I saw it was a new experience entirely. 2 AM, the moon piddling back and forth between waxing and crescent, we packed our things and vanished, the people we had lived besdie for years sleeping soundly as we pried ourselves loose. The town was ever shifting even then, even under quiet night as it folded over the scar we made, becoming seamless as if we had never been there in the first place.

We passed trees, houses, lights, roads; the intrinsic parts of my adolescence blurring at 30 mph as we set off, passing stores with no lights and empty parking lots, a silent as a last impression. A final piece of a previous life, and I swear I could hear it click into place.

But my goodbye had already been said, my tears shed and dried. So I looked forward without turning back. 

On the horizon, we saw the start of dawn.

This poem is about: 
My family


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