My I's
Which stand solitary
And bold,
Normally at the
Beginning of a thought
Or sentence
Have reverted to
Me's
Normally preceded
By
"You left".

With the ink from my passport
Bleeding like an arterial wound
Down my fingers and wrists,
I sat in that airplane terminal,
And let it stain my skin,
Drip to puddle on the floor.
I told my family
I was off "to seek a Great Perhaps."
In stark reality,
I was off to find you.

Stale cigarettes and old coffee;
The tastes of Europe.
The restless soul,
Came to America to better his children,
But don't you know
That change only hardens a child?
His wandering conscious
Will only find itself
In the land where you first saw his mother.
Where the two of you fumbled in muffled exploration.
We all return from whence we came,
The family-blood pilgrimage,
Stained with the ink of faded passports.

He accidentally
Woke me
As he stirred in bed beside me.

Half awake,
I fixated
On his chest rising,
And falling.

His deeply drawn breaths
Made the sound
Of perfect sighs.

I wanted to kiss
The sound of his sighs.

And I wanted to love him,
In this specific way,
Metaphysically,

But I couldn't.
I cannot.

I've got a young blood dripping through my veins,
Dribbling out of the scrapes on my knees
[The marks of a child.]
"You're too young for me," you say.
Trying to grow up too quickly, I say,
"You're too old for me."
[The words of a child.]
Then you kiss me,
Making that youthful blood run
To burn in my cheeks,
And make me a woman.