A safe space lost, and

a search begins. Zoning laws

necessitate stealth.

But paranoia

draws probing eyes away like

so many bright spots.

Then you stumble forth

calling out names and wishes,

forgetting the rules.

Building new patchworks

of sadness and light, stitching

hope with heavy hands,

we ask when and when

and when will they cover us?

We complain again—

the pieces don’t fit

no matter how we stretch them.

Inevitably leaving

gaps we’ll never fill,

you and I just laugh.

My heart aches today. I’m not sure why—maybe it’s everything to do with the pandemic, maybe it’s discontent with my privileged-but-not-all-I-want-it-to-be life, maybe it’s just hormones. It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that I’m responding to this ache differently than I would have a few years ago. It would have been cause for concern then, but now I’m okay with it staying around for a while. It has something to teach me. I might not learn the lesson right away, and that determined ache might keep coming back until I get it. That’s okay too.

My zen attitude doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ll enjoy the ache or that I’ll like it. It’s kind of like an annoying teacher whom you wouldn’t want to hang out with but whom you learn a lot from nonetheless. You roll your eyes at the sight of this teacher, but you still get out your note-taking supplies. And you try to pay close attention and make your notes as thorough as possible so you can get away from this blowhard as soon as possible!