So I leave an open letter here
on my desk
for you.
+Riley
___________________________________________________
I leave for Ireland soon.
The feeling is akin to dreams and dawn paralleling. First, I
see small coincidences, then stitches together and on the day I leave, a
release of webbing and knots into the day when I wake up there.
I am not packed yet. I am home, and I’m full of slipping
fingers. This premature longing for the past has me anxious in my clicking
skin.
How will I grow beyond tourism and local pubs? How will I
live? What will I take home? What worries and fears are waiting for me?
I hear the tapping of tomorrow. Excitement, impatience, all
in spite of today’s air in my lungs. My heart goes. I keep filling it with
noise. I’m drowning my tight throat in Netflix. Eyes open, hands cupped at the
sides of my head and the glass is dark, still, quiet, beating.
The trip has kept my cards close to my chest. I’ve come away
with what I need to keep upright, by the counting that my worry did in the
thick of semesters and grades. Those efforts must now be worth what energy they
were given.
There is joy here, and it is warm. Do not watch my joy, in
envy. Do not let me be proud of my works. They are not mine. This was given to
me, just as everything has been. Allow me to love you and bring you kindling
for your own fires while I am here, as I try to understand how to bring the
same for myself.
I bring you these, my prayers for you. My whispers of joy
and little reminders, victories, hopes. Let my heart be generous because of
such blessings among us.
Dearest perfect shine.
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