I haven't written anything in so long...
where am I?
what is this place?
14x14, seems so familiar
a scene from a dream
almost forgotten,
but still lingering on the edges of my mind.
I painted that bear when I was 7.
was that me?
that shy, frail child,
too afraid to go to her friend's birthday party?
white walls with dirty fingerprint smudges
if I had the motivation, I'd repaint.
something bright
hot pink
maybe dark purple.
don't count on it.
I remember the My Little Ponies that used to fill that drawer.
I've traded them for books, dvds, tap shoes...
my first pair of ballet slips
so tiny and dirty
worn with love
I was 4 then.
did I have any idea?
did I even dream of this?
this is my home
but my heart is so far away
broken into shards
and scattered across the globe.
a sliver waiting for me on the green woven seats of the Dublin train.
another inside my rock castle on the beach in Nice.
on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens.
by the lighthouse on the rocky cliffs of Mumbles.
under my bed, in a shoebox of playbills and rose petals,
waiting for me to find it again.
this emptiness
these holes that will never be filled
signs of fulfillment in itself.
surely life was simplier when I'd never ventured beyond these walls,
but a life without Tower Bridge
without RATP
or SEPTA
without the Welsh breeze
or French men in smokey bars
only a life of ceramic bears with lop-sided eyes
of dusty shelves
and stuffed cats...
would it be worth it,
if it meant no more homesickness
for these lost homes?
not lost...
temporarily vacated
to return to four smudged white walls
for the last time,
to hopefully find that missing piece
before I say goodbye.
what is this place?
14x14, seems so familiar
a scene from a dream
almost forgotten,
but still lingering on the edges of my mind.
I painted that bear when I was 7.
was that me?
that shy, frail child,
too afraid to go to her friend's birthday party?
white walls with dirty fingerprint smudges
if I had the motivation, I'd repaint.
something bright
hot pink
maybe dark purple.
don't count on it.
I remember the My Little Ponies that used to fill that drawer.
I've traded them for books, dvds, tap shoes...
my first pair of ballet slips
so tiny and dirty
worn with love
I was 4 then.
did I have any idea?
did I even dream of this?
this is my home
but my heart is so far away
broken into shards
and scattered across the globe.
a sliver waiting for me on the green woven seats of the Dublin train.
another inside my rock castle on the beach in Nice.
on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens.
by the lighthouse on the rocky cliffs of Mumbles.
under my bed, in a shoebox of playbills and rose petals,
waiting for me to find it again.
this emptiness
these holes that will never be filled
signs of fulfillment in itself.
surely life was simplier when I'd never ventured beyond these walls,
but a life without Tower Bridge
without RATP
or SEPTA
without the Welsh breeze
or French men in smokey bars
only a life of ceramic bears with lop-sided eyes
of dusty shelves
and stuffed cats...
would it be worth it,
if it meant no more homesickness
for these lost homes?
not lost...
temporarily vacated
to return to four smudged white walls
for the last time,
to hopefully find that missing piece
before I say goodbye.