“Who are you?” she asks me
With her elbows on the counter
Bridging her kingdom to mine
Her eyes see past me, through me
And I stop and I stammer
Because-- don’t ask me that, I don’t know.
How should I know?
I am a fellow traveler with myself
On this long and lonely road
Growing as I go
A sparrow searching for a nest
Because the places that used to fit me
Can’t hold the ways I’ve grown

And when I find it, I’ll step through that door
Holding hands with my darkest parts
And if I’m lucky I’ll get out before
We burn this whole house down
And as it goes, the bridge of our nose
Will tan, but I’ll get sunburnt still;
From wandering through the deserts of my mind
I know that she, that me, is out there too
And just because we haven’t found us yet
Doesn’t mean we aren’t out there to find.

Our paths just haven’t crossed since they divulged
In a yellow wood I near forget
Ever since the wood was cut
Tree by tree, to make the walls
That make the bedroom in the hall
Above the stairs where I’m still hiding
All my problems, hoping I’ll be gone before they find them.
That wood which held me as I was torn asunder
The paint which soaked up silent tears for years
Can never feel like home, and is it any wonder
That I’ve tied the pink and yellow to my fears?

And have I taken the road less traveled
In hopes of finding something new?
Or am I only pressing on in spite
Inspite of how I slowly come unraveled and unglued?
Alone and lonely—yes, I am
But why change course? For all I know
I’m almost to some place where I can rest
Halfway to some sort of home

And she doesn’t blink or stammer
Her gaze was glazed, and now confused
Because all along she asked me how
I was; she wasn’t asking who.
(And in lieu of that I meant to say
“good thanks, and how are you today?”)