what happens when i

cannot find my true north

and i do not remember how

to navigate a compass in lonely waters?

i cannot even write myself

without self-editing because

there’s always some mistake

i am that needs fixing,

no matter how often you rise

and fall,

waves.

 

i am not sailing

these blood red seas

because i am a shipwreck

waiting for someone

to wash upon this beach,

crying those tears

that mix in the tide

and tie me together—

to remind me that

we were not meant to sail alone.

but i did.

 

i am packing two suitcases.

in one is dust and dirt

of every place i ever loved.

shoes that have seen

spanish cathedrals and sunglasses

that have seen

portuguese castles.

my journal

and all the thoughts

i ever wrote down hide beneath

a lucky cat from mexico—

 

i will talk all the luck i need,

scared as i seem

so far

and in the other,

a suitcase

new and unused, i place

black and white photographs and poems

i did not write down.

a typewriter,

paintbrush,

and a record

—

these things are the real dust of my feet,

and i wash

black coffee

from my hands

 

and cry ink

i wish i had never been

brave enough to use

while my breath escapes

like a worn-out harmonica

 

i will not go back there.

 

the suitcase is one made

of cloudy dreams

and airplane fear

mixed with too foolish courage.

i skin my own game.

i throw away

the new suitcase

and the handle falls off

the old one

as i pick it up

but i am leaving this town

with this old luggage,

and when i return,

i will have forgotten

the new suitcase

i imagined with you.