In which old things turn up

The thing about spring cleaning is that you get to dig up a lot of things–material or otherwise. Today, I found this poem I wrote about a year ago.

Somewhere between
our first fight
And the nth time
we said goodbye,
I lost all the words
I know for pain,
Dropped them

one

by

one

like

bread

crumbs

As we snaked our way
Through our twisted minds
And plodded through
Unbeaten paths in the
Darkness of our hearts.

Did we really think
We could find a way back
When we have confounded
Even the most lucid of stars?

The moon has fallen silent
And somewhere between
Its waxing and waning,
Has stopped pointing
Its bony finger.
It has grown tired
Of watching us
Walk around in
Hopeless circles.

Yet somewhere between
This ebb and flow of tears,
The coming and passing of years,
We have somehow grown roots—
Gnarled and knobbly, but deep.

This is home now—
This place where you and I have
Disappeared to, this place
That is neither Here nor There,
Where we hold hands
While words fall away,
Where, wandering
Under shadowy skies,
We find ourselves,
And, rambling through
Our own tears and tracks,
We stumble upon a love
That traipses and turns
And twines and trips,
But is always here
And always there and
Everywhere in between.

30 April 2013

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