Yesterday I stood in a stranger's kitchen and sang quietly to myself. Yesterday I gave away nearly everything I own, and I am grieving--not for the giving, that felt good--but grieving for what I do not own.
I don't know if I should keep writing here. I will, I know I will, especially as I go across the country and friends wonder what circles is she spinning in, but if I stop, that is probably a good sign. That is a sign that I have moved on, that I am no longer waiting to be found.
Don't misunderstand. I want to be found. I want it more than anything, but I want it to be hard, hard as it is for me. I want to be searched for. I want someone to walk the world twice in iron shoes, to scale a glass hill, to wear the skin of a beast all day and wait for me at night in fear that I would not come, though I would come.
I want someone to walk into hell and walk out with me.
Once a poem said, dedication: you know who you are. Once a lover said: you're everywhere. Not angrily--we are not angry anymore--just honest. He meant my poems. Or maybe just me.
I come in magazines. I come in the mail. I come in kitchen scents. I come in the wind's soft sighs.
That is the thing about loving me. I will always be in the world, as words. I will always, always, cry out for you in song.
