I’m sitting here, 236 miles east
of where I was this morning, thinking
about you and the overwhelming desire
I had to do something,
anything.
I read your email, twice,
and watched a beetle scurry across the floor.
I felt like a flood.
Everything I could possibly think to say
rushed from mind to hand
as my fingers typed furiously.
As the waters settled and I pressed send,
I could only think to drive,
to move, to go, to do something
that took me away from everything.
It’s a romanticised idea,
to pack a bag in five minutes,
leave a note on the table,
and walk out the door.
The need to rush
left me winded
and a bit dehydrated,
two hours later.
I blasted CDs from the stereo,
one after the other,
voice cracking as I screamed above the wind.
The drive gave me clarity.
It helped me think of you,
of us, of what I want,
and what you can give.
Our connection,
however fleeting and intense and scary
it has felt these last few weeks,
is all I can think about.
I don’t want to lose my confidant,
whom I see more clearly
than the stars on a cloudless night —
this person who cares for me in their way,
as I care for them in mine.
I know we are in different places,
but isn’t everyone?
We are all pages in some great journal,
notes taped or glued or written in the margins
of someone’s book.
Sometimes, we share a page,
a smudge of penciled-in remarks,
a whole chapter.
The difference, to me,
is the intention,
the coming back,
chapter after chapter in some form.
It’s why we have novels,
create anthologies,
share spoken word that goes beyond
what is scribed.
I’m not writing this poem to say
this is only a typo
in what will one day be our chapter.
I’m writing this poem because it is all I know.
These words commanded my attention,
and so I gave them a page to exist on.
I don’t know where we will go from here,
but with you, I’m not worried.
So It Goes 