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I Go To Seek A Great Perhaps, as That Is What I Was After Too
The days crack like porcelain
under the heel of my wanting.
I am a spine of restless birds,
feathers slick with salt and early light—
my mouth tasting the metal
of doors I have not opened.
They ask me why.
Why walk without a destination?
Why carry a compass
if you don’t believe in north?
I tell them—
the road does not need an ending
to be worth taking.
Some skies are meant to be looked at,
not arrived under.
I keep moving
because stillness feels like rust,
and the wind has a way
of remembering my name.
The Great Perhaps is not a prize—
it’s the taste of rain
before the cloud bursts,
the echo that lingers
longer than the voice.
If you need a goal,
call this my goal:
to know how a streetlamp hums at early morning,
to count the freckles on a stranger’s knuckles,
to find out if the moon
is the same shade of bone in every city.
I have no anchor,
only her pulse like a lantern in my palm.
We are marrow and tinder,
always burning toward a horizon
that refuses to hold still—
and I love her for it.
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