mainly because I don’t much want to.
But I should want to. I should be the girl
with a raft on her back. When I think
of all the mountains and monuments
and skylines and seascapes I haven’t seen,
all the trains I haven't taken, all the road trips
I haven't gone on or mopeds I haven't ridden,
all the long wanderings through foreign cities
and along silver glaciers, and climbs to
altitudes so high I should nearly die, I press
my body down, down into the vast mattress.
If I step out the door, the infinity
of what I’ve missed will slap me across
the face with a big L for Lazy. Sometimes
I glance at pedestrians, their rushes and
concerns in their warm orbits, and have to
steady myself, my rattled heart unseated.
See—even my awe is weak and withered.
But I’m so tired of the small steps—
the pentatonic scale, the frequent flyer
hoarding, the one exquisite sentence
in a forest of exquisite sentences.
There is a globe welling up inside of me.
Galaxies flecking light onto my skin,
oceans filling my mouth. If I stay still
long enough, I could become my own world.
If I get the courage someday, I could
get out of this one, and find adventure there.