Leaving

Who knew that leaving

The city that choked you for years

Would be such a heavy process

Heady and romantic with some

Leaden, deadened disappointment

A boulder on your chest and

In the path of your escape route

To the land of white ink and white paper

Where the joy lies

A place that brings you magic

In the darkest of moments.

How can it be that in every low, soft sigh yearned for

Held hard in the moment

Almost frightened you white to the roots of your follicles –

A ghostly caress at your ankles

Coming hard and gentle

A faded hand twisting insides

Biting at your chest

Cruel mother heart that began to soften with

The hope of something new and tender.

Oh my curly-headed baby.

I clutched at the past

Wild-eyed like a child

One hand tangled in your hair

The other grasping at some other domestic reality –

Anything - a wall, a bed frame, a bit of cloth.

Soft. Hard. All. Nothing.

This city with all its sweet, dank secrets

Beckoning me to old rooms layered in wallpaper

The search and promise of history and meaning

The city holds for all of us -

You are my bleeding, empty, busy heart.

In the centre I can see many things but nothing at all –

But it is in the outskirts that trace ancient trees,

Tentative scrabbles towards community, and also for Unity –

I see it in the old book with spindled writing left on the coffee table.

If you blow off the dust, you may find something there,

Coins and tickets and tendrils of hair.

A 50 cent piece stolen and kept.

Close the door –

I go empty-handed in the hand of everything I will abandon myself to.