there's a little room
with a round door
in the back of my heart
with a view of the ocean
it's here where i find myself
forgiving everyone and everything

the floorboards are worn smooth
from all my returning
i pass through corridors
where conversations
circle like trapped birds

but here, in this back room
there is only morning light
on bare wood, and a single chair
where i sit and watch waves
erase themselves over and over

sometimes i stay until sunset
when the water turns to copper
i know i'll leave again
dissolving into the sweet
clutter of being human,
my heart a crowded kitchen

but the door stays there
round like a full moon
waiting, and the waves
keep writing their one word
over and over: return

It's all situationalship ,
being in or out
down or up
in love or not
Like a metronome
we swing back and forth
from love to hate
But like a swing
is there a point
we don't enjoy the motion ?
And what is that pause ,
that force ,
when induced
makes us
turn our backs and swing back again
One must ask and answer
what becomes of us
once the motion stops
as we turn
to walk away