Lost,

you are lost,

the screen reads

the words, clear as day,

staring back at me in neutral black letters,

letters neatly secluded in their little green bubble.

A truth for the ages,

it seems.

A truth so true it goes right for the gut

and makes my hands flail in

protest.

No no no no no —

you got me wrong.

Again, it’s all wrong,

wrong,

wrong.

Stop with these ugly truths.

I know why they look me square in the eye

but just looking them in the eye doesn’t bring change.

Let me down, I pray,

down off this crest of my own creation.

Let me glide to shore,

fingertips extended out, arms embracing, reaching

stretching, pulling, clawing my way

to a cozy lane

to any space I can call mine o’ mine.

Just give me a cutthroat strip

of constructed earth I can ride between,

nestled in on both sides,

screeching metal throttling me towards

a horizon line that keeps pushing further out.

I long to aim my sights between

two thick strips

two white lines of paint on a hot road,

contained freedom overflowing in the boundaries.

But, instead, I sit.

Two feet from the black top,

knees knocked, feet splayed out to either side

watching the days whip past me like the cars

speeding by as

the feelings rise in the high sun,

languid tendrils smoking silent,

ephemera evaporating with the tides

pungent smells mixed with sweet ambrosia,

love mixed with hate.

That’s what lingers in my place instead,

like a silent call on a busy day.

I sit.

A tidy package wrapped with a crooked bow,

velveteen grosgrain, all plush ribs

eager to pull

me in,

and I’m eager to touch,

to hold on to the

breathing texture and minutiae

of beauty that follows me everywhere,

the fog never too thick to notice but

the spirit is left thirsty,

dry.

Never quenched by the tasks the days throw forth

never satisfied until my kettle is whistling,

steam escaping.

Never whole

until I’m empty.