I woke reaching for something, specific but I wasn’t sure what.
A word? Nothing felt…write.
It was here I feel most complete and sure, even when I’m falling apart.
A certain sort of melancholy that coats a mended heart.
And so I shed a little tear for standing in the partway up the hill.
Of not quite where I used to be and not quite where I will.
Hands to far to hold all the ones I’ve loved before
soul too sure to turn back now, press on press sure press forth.
But what if this and what if that I hopscotch cross each one.
Doubt and shame and guilt and fear are never any fun.
The thing that’s best about my climb is the pending view of all
the obstacles I’ll have to face skinned knees from thirteen falls
and fourteen times I rose to walk and eventually I’d run
to the top of where I’m meant to be: most closest to the sun.