before you go
spell your thoughts out in tea lights,
each to be placed in moroccan lanterns set on the sill of the single pane window,
the one that lets out all the heat, with it’s warped glass and flaking white paint
on the third floor of your father’s house.
pour yourself a cup of the vanilla tea you brought back from the west coast,
use a teapot and turn it into something like a ritual,
hang glass crystals from high ceilings and cast spectrums on white walls,
stay up all night, disappear into travel documentaries, the ones about high mountain plains, the northern lights, mysterious kingdoms, shamans, temples, incense.
before i go
i need you to know that this was never about me surrendering
it was more like setting off on a wintry walk, taken at the edge of some opalescent, foggy dawn,
on a frosty december morning.
or, if you’d rather, something like a quiet, long considered, and final understanding.
the traveler in me, wrapped in wool coats, scarves and gloves, embarking on the greatest journey
any of us will know. you know,
i’ve been stood at this precipice for years
peaking through that soft, glittering veil
my arms outstretched, girl at the brink of two worlds
daring herself to take her next step.