Asking for Myself (1997)

It isn’t that i miss what it was.
I miss the time gone.
It reminds me of yet another year passing,
scrubbing my memory
as it flies by.

It makes me think of things
my mother used to do
laying on her bed in early evening,
she would count the tiny knobs
along my spine
making sure they were all there,
loving it for the touch.

I felt so safe,
with my boundaries softly placed
keeping the lines neatly connected.

And today, soundscapes reflect colour
and blind me so only my hands can see,
allowing me
to reveal myself
to a single close encounter.

Too much am i asking for myself
like an old friend over the telephone,
hoping for the answering machine,
but desperate to speak to the voice.

I’m just trying to find a way
to make something beautiful and final –
like a huge launch
i’ll spring from it
and be sent flying
steady and wonderful
into millions of lines crossing,
and still find my way back.

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