line the floor and clutter consciousness;
how simple it was for the romantics
to evaporate outside this world and into
distinct harmonies in conjunction
with other worlds living in our own.
I think of bodies I have lived in;
as each box fills with different reminders
of the same persona.
To move is to live in limbo,
between here and there
Freedom knows no better set of wings,
then the incomplete and unhoused.
Somehow,
each configuration of things I have,
always on top is a delicate reminder of a lover.
The clothes is topped with silk pajamas,
from an anniversary,
Milk crates of food holds an uncooked meal,
noodles and sauce we had planned,
pens and notebooks and paper,
topped with a black and white photograph
of us dancing.
And as I eloquently two step from one home to the next,
I mistakenly live in a plot of tulips.
My flower and her reminding pedals,
always my home.
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