It seems I have mastered the art
of being in a place while not being there at all.
You see me smiling, speaking, laughing,
gesturing wildly with my hands
while regurgitating the same script
I’ve had for years,
but I’m not actually here.
I can be running across the ocean,
hopping from white cap to white cap
while dark shadows try to pull me under.
I can be strolling through the woods
listening to the chatter of trees as they lament
the loss of their families, graves marked only by asphalt.
I can be waiting under the stars
rearranging the constellations
to make up the lines of faces I know,
framed by wayward strands of hair.
Or, more often than you know,
I’m keeping my eyes open to see you,
to show you that if you need me,
no matter how far away I am,
I can always return here.
