They fell into old habits, not as pleasant as falling into each other’s arms, older now but still mysterious, familiar if only in dreams. We fall where we must, some select a home, others are merely bright red and yellow leaves in autumn, familiar if merely a memory. Gravity weighs on us all, tugging us into orbits as we cycle though another revolution, resolved to find joy in the familiar — this perfect space.
About the Poet
Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives with his wife and son. He has published one book of poetry, Paint the Living, Plant the Dead, and one novel, The Alien in the Backseat, which can be found along with new poems on his website, phillipknightscott.com.