Stepping, swirling, across the floor.
Changing, breathing, pausing,
Relishing the sweet moments between.
New hands to grasp, words to utter,
The same steps in a different embrace.
Ending where I began with a new life,
Another cycle, slowly danced through time.

Sweet moonlight of yesterday’s path,
Casts a shadow as I place my feet,
In the still air and towering trees,
Singing softly in the nighttime breeze.
Nobly, I pursue the outlines of stone and gravel,
Bleak and gray, without the gentle light,
Soaring through leagues of empty, cold-hearted space,
To caress that craggy face, and
Land, softly, at my feet.

I have nothing but thorns, when I would have laid rose petals at your door.

Stars painted across the black sky, pinpricks of life.
Quiet calls like petals dropping in my hand.
Cold darkness wrapped around my fragile frame.
Steps like brushstrokes through the night.
A slow beating, yet to come.

One day, one notch.
Don't mess it up.
Better not to think too much.
Better to forget,
that I was never good enough.
Better yet,
that I never will be.

I am sentimental, lost in a river of wandering, leading back to my door.  Always seeking something new, an adventure, a challenge, or a place to explore. But leading to where? Perhaps my ego, or hopes, that’ll you see my secrets, and that I am what I deserve. Maybe that was my goal, leading back to my door by a different path, not seen. Until one day, I stumbled, and saw what was right outside my door.

Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green.

Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around.
  
Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own.

I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street.

When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.