pushing toward the things I dreamed as a seed:
a particulate of matter nestled under the blankets
of earth and potentiality.
I cried, I stretched my arms and felt the sand tucked around my shoulder
blades start to fade away with the miles covered in a greyhound bus.

I breathed, I blossomed;
I held the moon in my hands and used it to put shimmer in my step.
I tucked the unfinished pieces into my pocket and swore to return to them later,
I picked the brightest flowers from the field and wove them into the braid
that wrapped around my collarbones.
I wrapped my sweater tight around the life I made,
I watched it unravel with dwindling wonder.

I found the fragments in my pocket gathering dust:
some I set free into the fall air that smelled like my grandfather's garage,
some I melted back into the veins of my heart,
some I wrapped around the pigeons to keep them warm in the winter.

I am a sliver of mica retrieved by an eight year old girl from a lake
warm with the seaweed of summer.
I glimmer in the sunlight and flake away piece by piece,
floating to an atmosphere where I can reconstruct myself into the glossy
details on the edge of a wave.
I am all that I remember and all that I am becoming, constantly
part of a new wave, of the same ocean, from the same lake.
*aren't we all just runaways?