I Walked

I walked on snow and tainted thoughts about the future. Another self, dwelling away from home. Sometimes the lock was frozen and it took a hair dryer for me to go outside. Other times I fumbled in my pocket for a lost ticket--to the art museum that left me in a daze; for the train ride that fleeted past like a ghost retrieved from an old film. 

I lost things in the foreign cities. It did not matter to me. I hold a strange superstition: what's lost is no longer meant to be mine. 

The cold blazed; I zipped up my coat, voice lost in a mystery just born from the night. Night: hopes dashed; hopes unformed; hopes on hold between echoes of a distant drum. 

People who know me must know one thing: I am full of love. 

I would reach you if I have to. Only it comes through in a language we cannot catch. The language of loss. Consoled, then abandoned. 

We walked to the end of Manhattan. I can see your face, still.