eighteen years later

in a different country
as a different person
lost again
when she turned her back

no terror, just embarrassment
still from the same feeling
of abandonment
detached from the hand

this time
played out like normal
the event did not dilate
i'd already turned and left

there was no mother to find,
nor crowds to break through.
there were rows and rows,
ordered and static

awaiting their days of consumption,
i passed through them all, exited,
took my scarf off, slung it over,
and went upstairs to find you.