i would love to find a reason to come back,
but i’d also love a home. because
back there is everything i’ve run from
and where i am now is
nothing left of anything that was rising from phoenix ashes.
i don’t know if a spark can live here again.
i would map the constellations
for direction onward, but the sky is broken
and i’ve never see space so jagged.
inky black plains that should hold hydrogen
(and stars) are strangely discombobulated
to the outline of tangled eyelashes.
i don’t know what i’ve been doing wrong.
i’ve tried to focus and i’ve
compared textbook illustrations to the lights that
mockingly twinkle above my head.
but all i can concentrate on
are my attempts to reach the sky,
rather than focusing on stars themselves.
i was a whirlwind and half today,
stretching upwards for two and a half hours.
trying to stop all my thoughts from
drifting up and out to you,
i reached up and higher.
and i’ve decided that the cracks in the ceiling
come from the brokenness that radiates
up and out between you and me.
and the lacking constellations
are an echo of a lack of communication,
a lack of flowing words
between you and me.
it was then i realized how things correlate
and that i’d never have a home again.
written forever ago and found on my computer today.
edit* also I realized this is a terribly timed post, being Thanksgiving (for us Americans) and all. no intention was made on that front and post date is entirely coincidental.