There are days that are difficult
to love, days I don’t think I love
you or any of the things
I thought I used to love,
anymore.
Sometimes, we love only
our solitude. Other times
we despise it
because it will
not leave us.
I think I have felt
the tremor of joy;
I am certain I know
the incomprehensible
helplessness of peering
into the interior.
We waver in the blur
between doubt of self
and doubt of the other,
and conclude
the only certainty
is what we will ourselves
to decide. Who has not
ever felt the desire
to run away from oneself?
But time is as constant
as it is fickle. Truth,
one of many stones
that pave the inky
riverbed.
When I rinse my hands,
I see my face. When I touch
the surface, it clouds over
with the terrible urgency
of my need.
Does it matter we don’t know
in what terms to address
the future? Each thing
we do every day, we do
from wanting to come home.