in repetition i speak toward the muse
between the mist and the fog
of where i leave you
in dazes like this
where the haze gathers around itself
and we frolic through time
skipping between timelines
between moments separated by years
yet somehow touching
i lie here
in the grass of gardens i once called home
thirteen folded into now
the years stacking atop each other
until time feels less like distance
and more like reflection
i split myself in two
one standing here
the other reaching backward
trying to remember
what this feeling used to feel like
the horror of my knees
how they buckle beneath memory
how the body remembers things
before the mind understands them
i expose myself to the terrors of rivers
to swamps of still water
places that reflect me back
whether i ask them to or not
we kiss frogs hoping for kingdoms
hoping transformation arrives kindly
yet we always stand
where we actually are
instead of where we imagined ourselves to be
to sit here
to really sit here
i write you through memory
through the warmth of my breath
calling toward something familiar
not you
the feeling
the strange pull beneath my ribs
that i have not met
in a very long time
the way lips almost touch
but barely
the electricity inside hesitation
the vibration of youth
returning through another doorway
i am buckled by these desires
a man broken by his virtues
by the dangers of possibility
by the beauty of almost
i take your arm and pull gently
like i did over a decade ago
and suddenly time folds
not because you are him
you are not
but because the feeling is
an echo with slight differences
softer skin
softer hair
a different smile
a different voice
yet somehow
the same pull in my chest
the same longing
the same curiosity
the same sense that something important
is standing in front of me
and i take you into this moment
just to hold the idea
because the possibility of what could be
has always fascinated me
the idea itself feels beautiful
but to have it
to truly have it
would feel like everything
beauty
that is what i ask for
not with words
but with thought
with longing
with the quiet language i speak to myself
because i don’t think i miss the person
i think i miss the feeling
and somehow
after all this time
you brought it back
so tell me
do you accept this
will you let this happen
can i show you who i am
and can you show me
why thirteen years later
my heart recognized the shape of this
before i did
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