when i was young, i loved paper dolls, mustard on toast, eel eyeballs, the way that library books were sorted, and cracks in the sidewalk where my bicycle skipped. you met me there, you hurricane-child who began life addicted to cocaine, lived the first few years on the street, and then became an evangelist to the people who rented motel rooms by the hour. you were ten, preaching and punching rude boys.
we grew older; you became mild as a cow and i as fanciful as an asylum, and we thought it would all end there, deep in the black forest, but we survived and together became bright, true swords, lithe and poised. and now i find myself telling you goodbye? again?
i stood sobbing before the baggage man, apologizing over and over for the weight of my luggage.
