Dig. Dig deeper so you can write the words of the coldest winters, the darkest nights, the shortest days that seem to stretch on for weeks when you are gone. I’ve tried to tell you so many times how empty the house is when you leave, but the words never seem to quite wrap up the emptiness that nags at me from the cold sheets and extra pillows.
I spent years by myself. I wandered between cities, states, stages, communities. I can’t really say I was so much trying to put distance between myself and anything in particular. At least in theory I was moving toward something. It’s been such a wild scavenger hunt. I went out seeking the elements that I used to build the person that I wanted to be, and the person that I am. When the novelty wore off, when I had pulled all the perceived utility from a place, I was gone.
And then you told me that you loved me, and then you left.
I suppose I have earned this turning of tables, but forgive me, I’m not used to being the one left behind. I’ve never been good at hold down the fort. It’s why every spring there is something in me that wakes up with the rest of creation wanting to move after a long cold winter. The feeling of staying is foreign, uncomfortable. I remind myself that it’s not about just me anymore, but thats so much harder to be mindful of when here it is just me. Standing in stillness staring and the horizon wanting to run across the desert at the sun.
