Old Haunts
Someone said to me,
Come look at the old haunts sometime.
I looked around for them,
Where are these old haunts of mine?
Do they live inside me?
The long winding to the edge of the riverbank.
The treehouse I built over the course of one long summer,
Sweat-soaked and sun-lit,
The grand oak I sat under with my first love,
Before catching her laugh mid-kiss?
They crumble and re-build themselves in one moment,
I’m always looking from a little further away.
What do they haunt, who haunts these old haunts?
Those quiet nights with wakefulness on my eyelids,
Stumbling across an old reflection,
Finding facts stuffed in pockets pretending to be lies,
The edge of an abyss I’ve been careful to avoid.
Have they always been haunts?
Have I been running to far to see?
Drive past the lopsided signs on the road,
Come look at the old haunts,
Come inspect your heart for landmines,
Come make sure the keys still work for the doors at the back of your mind.
These are your old haunts,
Tread carefully now.