I yearn for --

— space, to breathe, to live,
to stretch my arms and my
invisible wings, nothing grand, mind you,
just a decent spread of feathers,
enough to lift my feet
off the ground and let me
soar over castle towers,
to catch a glimpse of sleeping princes,
planting seeds of longing in that space
between sleeping and waking,
and waiting for whichever takes root
among those dark and dangerous souls.

— space, with bright, bright light,
pouring in every morning
and all afternoon, cascades of gold,
or a spectacular view
of rain and thunderstorms,
the sky a companion, a witness.
At night, the full moon visible, unimpeded,
on certain evenings when
spells have to be cast,
to help a few Things along,
or simply when I feel like howling
either in ecstasy or lamentation.

— space to break and scatter
my selves, harvesting seeds
for planting into dreams,
to create, spin, weave,
Stories to trade for when
I need to walk the worlds,
currency of the soul,
worth its weight in gold,
and safe passage.

— space to be empty, free of
deadlines and obligations,
a length of time unencumbered
by due dates, nothing looming in
the horizon, nothing to prepare for
but that which I had been waiting for,
nothing arriving that I did not expect,
nothing given that I did not hope for,
nothing taken away that I did not release.

— space to walk, to run,
forest floor or sandy beach,
away, far away from anyone
who would not, could not, hear
the susurrations of a chafing spirit,
away from who could not stand silence.
No city lights, no ringing pinging phones,
No rumble of engines nor
noisy market talk or weather talk, only space to hear
birdsong and crickets, wind through the fields,
rushing water, crashing waves,
rain on a cluster of trees,
the occasional conversation of cows and
wild animals passing by,
the sound of book pages turning,
music played by hand or breath, unrecorded,
only remembered by the creatures
who paused to listen.

— space to be alone in, at night,
while I lie on my back,
face to face with the night sky,
speaking to the constellations,
murmuring a litany of old secret names,
taunting a response, a blink,
a lightning strike,
watching for signs,
a telltale streak across the sky,
(exile of a rebellious angel,
a blue police box)
a falling to meet me, here,
ready to receive,
(be careful what you wish for).

— space in someone's heart
to call my own, untransferable claim,
hollow in my absence,
moulded to the shape of my soul
marked with the unutterable alphabet
of my true name,
very much like the space,
this wide wild chasm here
in my own heart, waiting,
yearning.

i tap my feet in rhythm with the clock's tiny hands
​most would think i was impatient
but i am only tapping my feet

sitting on this well-worn fence
watching the floods sweep away
scenes and stages and backdrops

my legs get speckled with mud
and rainwater that usually tasted of tears
spatter me, the observer, feigning immunity

stars die before me, blazing sadly into the sea
extinguished by misplaced hope
crushed by too-passionate expectations

i take hints and cues and notes
mumbling "i thought so"
like a litany

all in all, there have also been
too many occasions for laughter
i have amassed volumes of cosmic jokes

one day, I was laughing too hard,
that i fell, spilling myself, my heart
tumbling off to rest by someone’s feet.