Every day is like Sunday (except Sunday),
Tearing holes in the week too big
For my feet to fill. The only thing separating
This from hell would be distance.

And yet there is some part of me that would
Trade the old for the new, live on
A very different border from the one
Of which I have thought so often,
Float further down the river.

*
Separation has always been good for me,
It turns out: room to breathe, water to cross.

The irony of this has the citrus tang
Of rust, the frames of my desires flaking
As they cease to be maintained.
Pulling away has often saved me,
Though not always in a way I expect.

Summers in the Sun could do me good
If I let them, bright skies making
Old sounds sparkle anew, opening eyes
And ears to the full range again.

*
Sometimes, I look for patterns in the places
To which I am drawn, but only find
What I have been told is there. Sometimes,
I mistake the world for exclusively my life.

This feels like running away, even though
I have never gone far in the real world.
My mind, my memories, my optimism,
Extend far beyond where my feet
Will ever actually land.

02/08/2016

Posted on 03/03/2016
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