Moon-nights turn wayward dawns into dusk.

The grass settles as we wind our way down the valley;
foxgloves tilt--
the night is clear as any,
and we find ourselves gazing skyward
hoping to catch a glimpse
of the shadows we left behind--
there aren't any.

Long ago we made a promise--
a promise carried through by particles of dust that cling to us
like silver lining on a cloud.
They belonged to others before us,
from times before any of this existed.

The mountains grow as we follow the path blindly,
ever deeper into the darkness.
Where the moon once lit our way,
we only see its shadows,
cast on the craggy skyline that moves farther and farther out of reach.

We aren't looking back.
When we decided to leave so many years ago, now,
we promised we would never return--
would never turn around, even,
and wave goodbye.

There wasn't anybody left to wave to--
anyways.

Every now and then, you glance in my direction--
I don't look at you.
I sit still, stoned on silence.
There isn't anything to say,
as the night grows blacker than black and the mountains no longer stand out from the sky.

The old home we left behind,
where magic hid under the bedpost and night terrors turned tricks on the heather--
it lost love when the fires raged.
We lost too, but we never stopped to ask if the love that was wasted could grow again on its own.

We left as the smoke reached the horizon--
we left while the bed posts blazed and the hills grew more effervescent in the fire-lit glow.

We left, one day,
and vowed as one does--
never to return.
And vowed as one does--
never to look behind us.