There were days when the thought
of change was a welcome gift
to share. Days when
each particular moment
was all about light
and nothing else.
Days where I
would bite my nails
in search of a mirror
to tell me I should
run away.
To Rome, Venice,
hell, Scotland will do for now.
To the Seychelles, Bali,
although I've already been there.
To Paris, a clichéd lover's paradise
where I could walk down streets
starting with Rue and ending
with Boulevard.
Home, and why I think suffering
is but stolen moments. Away from sleeping.
Away from catching stars and placing them
upon my lips, so I can taste what it means exactly
to know of another home. To close my eyes,
spread the sky wide, immerse myself in hues
I'll never name
but only see
in a master painting.
Placental. This is where I choose to begin it all.
Beyond riverboats. Beyond irises and violets
and marigolds. Disbelief follows me as I scramble
beyond this prow, below the arching waters
of my Babylon.
Days when solitude
becomes the only sign
that I am alive and well
to share with you
my vision.
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Submission Name: Optics
