i hold the pen with familiar longing
but unlike a child, or a maiden filled
with youth - i did not gush within contact.
instead my hand trembles,
not with fear but with the impact of
memories resonating through time.
i remembered how i used to be me
a person i know but don't understand
as if a stranger i see everyday but
whose name i still don't know
despite the fact that we've smiled at
each other maybe once or twice.
the person i was before was not that nice
neither is the person i see now
on mirrors and people's eyes when i
stare too hard because i don't recognize
i was a planet, now a comet
i was a wanderer, now lost forever
yet i feel human and alive
there's so much to do, so much to see
but for the mean time i want a fragment of me.
so, let me write again.
let me say my name.
it's time to return home. it's time to return to poetry.
— The End —