aSpire.

At the end of my street is a church. Great spires of oxidized copper cover stones a hundred years in their puzzle. It sits at the top of the hill, at the top of the island, it looks out over its worker's quarters of old, over the teeming city at the bottom of the hill and across the strait; its bells toll through the days, through the nights, every hour on the hour, on the half hour, at weddings and funerals alike, it is steadfast.

We lay in a park at the foot of the palace, at the other end of the city, letting summer paint our skin, letting time etch the other's eyes into our memories, the moment so sweet in its lack of questions. I looked up at the south island and saw that church--everywhere I go in this city I see that church--and it made me smile, knowing that just below it lay the place where I live. That there is a place where I live.

I walked the long way home today, heavy feet dragging along sundrenched shores, a million commuters racing past me, children gone mad with the season. I looked at the church then, as it rose into view across the islands, and it offered me no solace. This is not my city, it is not my church, not my Home.

How, when I need to fall helplessly, these are not the arms that will catch me.

It's not you.
It's me. 
I've only been playing pretend.