the walk away

you’re looking for a preposition,
i can tell. and if i had the right one
i would give it to you, i would.

your shoulders are rolled forward.
your eyes are slicing through the tall grass
searching whicker-whack to find out where.

watching you from across the lawn
i assume you have already decided the what,
else how will you know when you find it?

perhaps it’s easier for you to parse the sentence
than to write a new one. your machete tells you where things are
(or are not). not what or why. never why not.

you want a between, you want a behind, an underneath,
an in lieu of, a within. i don’t know what you want but hope
you’ll know it when you see it: the where.

there’s something riding on this.
for some reason, there’s a lot on the line for you
(and, i relentingly realize, for me.)

why is this? and why am i hanging my hat upon it?
what keeps you pacing keeps me frozen and watching.
i should walk away. i really should go. really.

i remember when you used to stand still,
firelight on your face, telling the story of the world
and of all of us. we were warmed, watered, enthralled.

now you are silent and you tell the story
only of the thing that was lost. part of you expects
to find it. desire pulls your feet across the yard.

back. forth. back-and-forth-and-back.
part of you has settled into seeking like an armchair:
you’ll never find it, might as well get comfortable.

i say again, i should go. i cannot tell if you hear it or
if i mean it, but i know this is not about me.
that’s the trouble, my trouble.

i do not have to know how it ends.
it isn’t the essential thing, not for me.
all my hopes are with you. so long.


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