itching.

I itch.

it’s a twitch
I dare not scratch-
for that way lies
loneliness.

there was a time
my soul would
e  c  h  o
like an empty suitcase,
the open road.
Behold:

Connection, Affection
are far too tempting

and suddenly
I see
Life
unfolding the way all those
Coming-of-Age novels
warned us about
[with disdain,]
the refrain

repeating
 
over and over
again and again
before my eyes.

to my surprise,
I understand.

and yet, the grand
vastness of infinity
calls to me still

How to stand it?
remember:

Life is for Living
and when I arrive at my death,
out of breath
and late as usual,
and my soul finally
s.c.r.a.t.c.h.e.s. its way free
of this confining body,

I will           race
to that glimmer
at the edge of forever
and              embrace
the impossible echoes
of eternity

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suitcase soul.

some stay,
or so I’ve heard.
and they’re happy.

some are born to run,
or so I’ve heard.
I didn’t think
I was one.

but maybe I’ve always
known-

there’s something
about a suitcase.

about not being able
to stay too long.

coming and going,
perhaps returning. perhaps.
but being able to choose?

is freedom.

my suitcase
is screaming.