I thought maybe I’d soar,
and you’d be there to meet me.
But you won’t, probably.
Because you are where I left you.
Unless you flew, too,
which, perhaps, you didn’t.
There is newness where I’m going,
which feels more like a future event
than a place at all.
I could get used to anything.
And nowhere is perfect.
Yet a bit of home is tucked inside, anywhere.
I find myself in the most unusual places,
often not realizing it was me
I set out to look for.
“You coming?” I ask.
But the answer doesn’t matter
because I’m going anyway.
You are just one potential blip
on the radar of my becoming
what this moment says I am for now.
Always moving onwards,
I wonder what there is to hold on to.
Someone has released the slingshot
and I am soaring through the air
higher than many would dare.
“Would you?” I think.
But I don’t ask.
Because I’d rather not know.
You are better off elevated
in my imagination
as your pure potential.
I feel emboldened as I sense my own,
something percolating,
the smell of possibility awakening my senses
as a preemptive wave to seduce me towards
the impending jolt.
I know
something deep inside,
beyond words and even emotions.
I settle into knowing,
even as I fly.
And then, any place I am is perfect.
November 19, 2013
Travel Verses
