Who has a heart so wide to kneel on the floor and look up at me with big brown eyes and say the words I had been rehearsing since I rounded that corner and saw you there and didn't stop looking and wanted you to see? 

Who is wise enough to guess my middle name and the walls I build? Who has courage enough to break the unspoken rules of the in-between? 
 
How many nameless people must wander the isles of my dreams before I stop to turn and utter the very exsistence I have been hiding from my entire life?

Will you always haunt me?
Will my own lost space become the day I regret, 20 years later, sitting above some foreign street in a faraway city, with a view that has long since deserved to be let go? 

Will I wish in that moment that I had been more like you or perhaps less caught up in my own head, that I had knelt, held my heart up to the light, and shown you just how lonely we really are? 

His head is a cavern 
I search for at night.

We hold leather and paper
and honey in our twisted hands
and open our mouths to each other  
and pretend to say 
all the things we used to long for.

The bathroom now smells like copper
and the roof leaks wine at the corners.
 

I want his field
and her lips
and the swimming hole at the end of the hill. 

I want the closet we used to hide in 
and the names we traced
on each other's backs
and all the years we swallowed
while drinking bitter lemonade. 

He cuts his own hair 
and admits to feeling lighter.
He buys a train ticket 
and admits to stealing
the innocent morning light. 

He does not get caught.
He does not return.

It's easy to get lost 
when you're not searching.
It's easy to leave when you think you're not wanted.