I don’t know a lot of things. I don’t know what I’m doing here, or how this little space has remained empty for so long. I don’t know where to begin again, but I’d like to try.
I don’t know a lot of things. I don’t know how to drive in the snow, or how I left home with no plans to return. And I don’t know how I feel about any of it. I don’t know how people survive these harsh winters year after year and never think about leaving, how they resist the temptation to give up because it is dreadful in a way I have never known. I don’t know how not to need the sun.
I don’t know a lot of things, but I know I miss writing poems, though I was never any good at it. I know I miss holding your hand, though it was never completely right. I don’t know how to articulate this tangled mess of feelings, but I know I miss the blueness of you. I miss the parts of you my metaphors can’t touch. I never looked away when your eyes caught me studying you. Even now, I could write about the freckles behind your ears, the neatness of your fingernails, the way you scrunch your nose when you felt like my staring required a show, but not your blue. Maybe this will be my favorite mystery, maybe it’s like the ocean you always seemed to be longing for. Maybe this is the closest I’ll get.
I don’t know a lot, but I know I’m in the midst of big things. I don’t know where I’ll be living in six months, where I’m headed or what I want, but I think I’m starting to learn who I am. I know I wish the world was a little bit kinder to itself, that I still believe love undesired is the biggest waste. I know that I’m resilient, I just forgot for a little while.