Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room.   Half illuminate a face before they disappear.   You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling.   I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name.   Our letters sound the same;   full of all our changing that isn't change at all.   All straight lines circle sometime.   You said "Somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts   to all the tenderness we've broken or let rust away.   Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving.   Somewhere someone says 'I'm sorry.'   Someone's making plans to stay."   So tell me it's okay.   Tell me anything, or show me there's a pull,   unassailable, that will lead you there,   from the dark, alone, benevolence that you've never known,   or you knew when you were four and can't remember.   Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams,   and the silence knows what you silence means,   and your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them)   are linked, like days, together.   I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right.   I remember everything, lick   and thread this string that will never mend you   or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor,   or the fire-door that we kept propping open.   And I love this place; the enormous sky,   and the faces, hands that I'm haunted by,   so why can't I forgive these buildings,   these frameworks labeled "Home"?