Pages of me: another page from my journal...

The book. The library. The library that contains everything that was ever written, will be written, is written.

I went in search of that library.

I wanted answers.

I wanted to find the story of my life.

To open it up, and find myself back in my childhood home. Towel wrapped and flying through the halls.

I wanted to find myself in the arms of an old love. Sweat drenched and blissfully happy.

I wanted to finger the old and torn pages.

Most of all, I wanted to find me.

Lost somewhere in those pages. That missing chapter.

I know in whose keeping I have left my heart. But I don’t know where my soul has gone.

A map. A map to self. Eyes, ears, mouth.
The Northern regions of my toes, always cold and isolated.
The Central regions of my breasts, a somewhat popular tourist attraction.

The map has measurements. I have stepped on scales, been wrapped with tape. An inch here, a pound there.

They use to say it was impossible to map the stars. Celestial bodies ever changing. But in the night they would whisper that the North star would always lead you home.

I thought about looking up at times. My eyes burning form the intensity of the sun. But I was always lost as to which way was North.

Frustrated, I turned to things on land. Things I could reach. Things I could touch.

The library. I’m there.
Dog-eared and centerfold.

Read me.

You do.

You look at me and whisper my words.

So quietly that I hear forgotten oceans, and waves swum.
Another word dances off your lips and I am thrown.
Surely you will capsize me.

The memories. Tidal waves.
No cruise liner, no submarine. My hand made dingy is no match.

This small awkward boat. This is my safety against my world.

Your mouth parts to release another wave.

I reach out with what is left.

My fingertip against your lips.

Silence. The world waits, suspended and submerged.

You kiss my finger, and the dam explodes.