I
would like
to keep your words
safe in a box of TARDIS blue—
the blue we used to paint
the intangible mailbox of lost
letters and unwanted words—
even if (though there should be none)
you had let go of the strings I had tied
around the balloons I had blown my whole
story into. And up, up, up they went
until they were no more, and you
never really got to see them, because
your eyes were still closed from trying
to live elsewhen, visiting pain
from an old wound. I got
that. And I promised myself
there would be no more
balloons. But I travel like a child,
around and around, and the next
day I carelessly gave another
one to a stranger, thinking he was blind
so it wouldn’t matter, and we parted only
to see each other again the week after, when
he told me he had been thinking
about what I had let slip through my fingers
onto his, his hands, his lips. He gave
me his word and I’ve been keeping it
safe like the dust in my place, under
my bed where the broom does not reach.
But not in a box of TARDIS blue, which I’ve reserved
only for you, for when I move forward I go
around to go back, around and around, like
a child in circles, finding things
I missed the first time around.
Dear you
are missing
from me.
I tell myself I will one day jump
off this carousel, scrape my hands and my knees
on the ground below. And being the fixed point,
I will see you come and go; no longer
will I be the one
to be always going back.
Today I moved to Vienna, thinking I’d be closer
to you, only
to discover you
had moved to Thailand, closer
to where I began. Equidistant, we
do not meet. I wish we were
instead dancing and playing around
a maypole, getting closer and closer
but still trading places and spaces, and still
in equilibrium.
But we have to be merry, have to keep
going
around and around
like children, and back
home again.
(Take that jump with me
into the box,
where we’ll be safe. No one
would, like
you.)
Home is
where the heart is, I do
not want
to go home to
you.