ship-log 1

I hear music in the clack clack of keys
i'm writing this publically because i'm re-introducing
or perhaps returning
from a journey
in a land of many splendid things
a land of waterfalls and beauty
and deep dark secrets of
need. 
welcome me. 
I welcome me.

we are strangers to ourselves
you and me, me and me, this you outside of me
that I have for so long held beneath deck,
in some deep sea trench
because it didn't fit. 
and now i'm feeling quite alone
having severed my surrogate self
that I had at some unreality believed
to be an intricate, important, essential, intimate, intrinsic self. 
but this was really you. 
you not me.  you.

the world is not ending though I think sometimes that perhaps it all unravels at 27.  how silly.  how very 27 of me. 

there is so much to the story,
so many lessons, lessons to lasso letting go. 
how do you hold onto the letting go? 
go away from me
but stay always. 
it's a jar without a lid trying to preserve something transient.

she looks at the coffee cup you gave her for Christmas.  It feels out of place here on her desk.  It should be on some wooden table over looking a forest of snow covered pines.  she sees into the future, snow covered pines, she sees you in a coffee cup with snow covered pines, the lines of you metaphoric because you are a memory.  a memory.  a permanent piece of ceramic incarnation, a tale of love and woe.  a tale of sorrow and such sweet harmony, such sweet honey and milk and sugar and caffeine, a feverish, fiery, glowing revelry.  

The truth is I'm mourning.  Yes, mourning.  I miss me.  More than I miss you.  That's a truth.  That's a truth.  Where is my mooring?  Where is my morning star?  I know I left it here somewhere.