the golden year

I keep saying, "I just came back,"
like being here isn't good enough.

And I felt that inner critic starting to rant
when they came in today,
'Oh, you work here now?'

"Well, I just came back."

No
You
Didn't.

It's been a year of gold.

I am going to bury the last of it along Highway 1,
I am going to whisper my anger to the sand,
I will cry salt back into the ocean,
and I will say, "I've done it , holy hell, I've done it."

They say it takes half the time you've been together to heal,

well, cut it in half and I'm almost healed.

I can't breathe out of nose,
I'm dripping sweat,
I think perhaps you are a bit immature,
and then I think,

Oh, hello fear.

Not this time,
this time is happy.

We don't make rhino noses out of leaves, but maybe someday we will, or we'll be even more creative.

Everyone is doing something with someone else.

vague, and it feels that way.

Another you, another you, another you,

I can't even personalize it, since names mean more than we think they do,

and attachment is a funny word.

I want your body, and I want you, and they are the same thing to me.

It's all stressed out that we will be apart for so long, and I can't help wonder stupid thoughts.

No,
return to the trust, and the knowledge that holding on is like worrying,
it does only damage.

I see sparks and fireworks, and I can't attend your tangible party but we have them always and I thank G!d for moments when I can think of your name, and backflip inside.

I must bury my final wounds,
they do not serve me,
I am no longer slave,

boundaries galore
and I want to swim in you.

But this work I must do alone,
return to the scene of the scar,

and say,
"You do not control me now!"