I wrote this poem about R in 2019:
The stranger tastes familiar as my own roots,
Oxytocin in the blood comes not from you or me,
the magic only works with two
grieving souls,
falling asleep to freight trains perfumed in garlic and ghosts,
blossoming together,
20 years late.
Have you ever found something you didn’t know you lost?
Would home welcome you after leaving her for the world?
In a heartbeat,
I suddenly see
that I traveled
searching for the world
when the whole world was here
in your patient smile.
So what if I write a poem about it?
Why not enjoy the warm autumn air and sunset-lit mountains and all the pretty words
and the chemical reaction that is proof of life,
When homesickness is healed
at the epicenter of the other me:
You.
4:28 p.m. - 2022-10-25