Coming back, to leave.
Oh look what I used to do.
It’s tough, looking back at all these loves.
True ones, felt in my marrow. Deeper.
I can feel them still, if I try.
And I do sometimes.
Funny how I remind myself
after all these lifetimes have passed,
that the right person
at the wrong time
is the wrong person.
How my brain knows these things more than ever, finally.
And how it feels good to find a glimmer of contentment,
which has never come easy for me.
Oh but comfort is a vile word in my mind,
dirty, like ‘stagnant’ –
what a hideous group of letters that is.
Comfort takes us away from the real grit of living
and into the day to day hellos and good(bad)byes,
grocery lists and buds in ears.
So. I will walk.
And rid myself of comfort for awhile,
and the past, for good.
A Place for My Poems to Live 
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