something very sweet about coordinates

I think a lot about going home, dear reader. Not because I want to, but because my family is there. The family that raised me, and the family that has seen me dying. 

I hate that time is passing. I hate that days, months–a year has passed since I’ve seen my sister. I hate that I haven’t seen my sister in a year.

I am very afraid of lost time, and I have years of it. I feel both stunted and ancient, which is fucking weird, man.

I’m older now than I was when this all started. That’s cool, and confusing. 

We’ve grown in ways that we don’t know how to measure yet. We’ve grown with compassion, maybe, and with grief. We’ve grown tired and we’ve grown older–this is how it goes. This is how it goes.

I think about going home a lot, dear reader. And I think about the people I miss. 

I’ve written about it. 

Read if you want to. As always, this is to borrow, or to keep. 

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There’s something very sweet about coordinates 

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I think it’s their exactness

Having spent no time at all deciding

where they stood they 

fall immediately to a single point, bound

To all the others just the same. 

I think it’s their fracture having 

broken to their own, they show

Location in relation to a center 

which they’ll never meet I think 

it’s their sincerity.

Map making and time telling both old habits made 

sacred by numbers that have outlived them. 

I think it’s their boundaries. How long

How far if only so much 

without falling to the next

I think its their frivolity–they’re funny really

Names for temporary hills 

Who may stay still crack open. 

Widen. 

I think its their place

In all this

Silly and sturdy 

Needed for flight paths 

And some kind of sweetness

To which we point and say here

Look here

This is the place where I came from

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I love you so much

take care.