I haven’t been outside in 42 hours.
I keep closing my eyes and seeing cornfields.
I know this city is beautiful, objectively,
even subjectively, if you get me tipsy and out
late at night when I can see the stars
needling their way through the thick dark
that closes over us like a hand.
I pretend the callouses brushing my shoulders
are God’s fingers, and not those
of some faceless something.

I know I used to say its name in my sleep.
I know I used to say it was the only thing I wanted,
to sit at this city’s knees and listen to its stories,
let it comb its fingers through my hair.
But it never did those things.
I couldn’t find the right doorstep,
or the right window, to crawl through
and slip into its bed, wrap my arms around it
and tuck my cold toes against its ankles.
I wake up alone, and roll over, bury my face
into the pillow so the sun can’t see my shame.

I tried to love it, for a while,
even when my love letters went unanswered,
but sometimes you just get tired
of waiting by the mailbox in the cold,
so I started thinking about colder places
where the frost was staved off by the fireplace
and the earth outside stretched on for miles,
gold and silver and smooth as icing.

I don’t know why I always want to leave
the places that feel most like home.
I don’t know if I’m afraid I’m missing something more,
or if I don’t want to be afraid of missing that.
But here I am now, in a place
that will never love me back,
and all I want is to go home,
turn back the clock, say
I’m sorry, I never meant to go,
I just didn’t know how to distinguish
being held from being trapped,
and if you’ll have me back, I promise,
I’m yours to keep, I always was.

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