You search my name on Google and find it.
Everything I write.
All my heartbeats and songs and moments when I cannot speak.
And you hug me and look at me with awe.
How do you do it? you ask, and I see a fire light behind your eyes.
I do not tell you about this place where my words are too hot to bear my name.
I know you’ll get here one day and find me.
I know that when you do, you will see something you always understood and you will feel a tenderness you are too young to bear.
I want you to be ready for that.
So I shift a bit and let the curtain down to give you room to burn.
I see your words, filling up the space around you.
I see your words flying through your brain as you retreat to a place where thoughts are loud and muted in a kaleidoscope of feeling you are not yet familiar with.
I follow the arc of your heart as it expands too wide and shuts tight and cautiously learns a rhythm set to wonder.
You are finding something of your own.
You are authoring a story and I am a step behind.
Too far behind to catch you when your pages wrap around you and you can not breathe.
Too far behind to wipe the tears you dry yourself.
Too far behind to stop your teeth from pressing deep down into your skin as you scratch the surface, looking for more.
Too far behind to find your beat and fall into the story you are writing on your own.
How does she do it? I whisper as I wade through embers I used to flame.
And the answers whispering through the wisps are old and new and still too far away.