Don’t Go Back

Low tide.
Early light.
Something shining
caught my eye.

Green glass.
Weathered cork.
A folded page
washed to the shore.

No name.
No place.
But every line
I recognized.

It knew the road
I used to take.
It knew the promises
I couldn't make.

It knew the door
I left unlocked.
And at the bottom:

Don't go back.

My old street.
My father's car.
The little scar
above my heart.

A summer night.
A broken chair.
Things no stranger
could know were there.

No name.
No date.
Just one last line
at the bottom of the page.

It knew the road
I used to take.
It knew the promises
I couldn't make.

It knew the door
I left unlocked.
And at the bottom:

Don't go back.

I turned the paper
in my hand.

Then saw the writing.

And understood.

It was mine.

I knew the road
I used to take.
I knew the promises
I couldn't make.

I watched the bottle
leave the sand.

And didn't ask
how it came back.

Don't go back.
Don't go back.