When the voice came through the phone line
I felt lighter for the last time
In the bulk of all this personal mythology
As it worked to fill the gap formed in the north Atlantic map
With my speculations and reverse psychology
It was comfort in the same room where the frost around the window
Framed the warmest sunset I might ever see
In the vast array of violet, altostratus from the Highlands
Were an arrow pointed to the mouth of Fundy
And I doubt I've come to mind much since September
Maybe just in playlists algorithmically at night
So when the dust had settled I was set to face the grief
But all that I was facing was relief
When the driver passed the bench I felt him question my activity
As I was there to take in the industrial tranquility
The stop is only serviced by a dozen trips a day
So in the end I saw the space as mostly decorative
And maybe he would get it if I wrote it out in prose
To be pulled apart by critics' light and literature bros
And so I keep their company in restaurants and late night walks
To all my hiding places