Right now, there is that compelling drive
to make those twenty-something hours to Tennessee,
to run along the low-hum of dreary mountains
into New England and on over to New York,

To take my time coming back, through the quiet rocky forests
To all those pieces of my heart I left behind in each place,
and not to ask a single one to come back
but to ask each one for forgiveness—

Look, some love is lost now.
So much of that was letting go of
myself, and then not knowing myself well
Enough, is sometimes the most loving of words

to tell me to be still; I would not listen, but
to tell me how this was perfect, enough—the way it was,
to tell me you wouldn’t change a thing.
I would stop then and wouldn’t be able to
leave, this time, so easily or so soon.