II

I have time.
All the time in the world:
to take long walks,
to breathe in the cool, crisp air,
to write letters and poems and songs,
to raise up strong, sturdy plants,
to visit museums, go to the dentist and wash my socks.

There, on the horizon: the majestic Illimani.
Below: hundreds of winding, ribboning trails and streets, begging to be explored.
At my fingertips: access, virtually, to everything,
and time - to capture and express everything, in its clean, organized glory.

But you (pl.) are not here.
I see you in pictures, on school lists,
hear you over the phone, in the background,
remember the sound of your voice, the weight of your arms around my waist,
know that I am supposed to be with you,
and know, at the same time, that I am not.

And so the clean air smacks of suffocation,
the sparkling streets of sterility,
and my clean socks of time wasted,
while the Illimani glares down haughtily from on high.

Why should I care, or try, without you?

Because, as much as I believe anything in this life, I believe:
     I believe there is a reason, even for this absurdly stifling time.
     I believe You have a purpose, a greater good in Mind.
     I believe that You don´t casually hand out a passion like the one You gave me,
          only to snatch it back like a greedy child,

So...

I´ll trade the stuffy work-shoes for sneakers,
underwire for elastic and cotton,
desperation for hope...

...and take that walk,
breath that cool air.
talk to my sturdy, stoic plants until they bloom,
scratch out prose and verse through gritted teeth,
keep washing those socks.

Until You see fit to send me back.

Will I be wiser, stronger, better prepared?
Perhaps.
But, maybe, this time is to stretch me back,
     tighter and tighter,

until I can finally spring forward
into the arms that I love, and that need me
(Or that I need)
To feel whole,
To feel me, again.