Always been obsessive
about collecting myself,
preserving the truth of me
in a bottle, but I bubble
over like warm Prosecco
on the wedding hall floor.
And I, too, am restless, and flighty,
too elusive for my own good,
too unknown to be anyone,
and too content in it.
Is there anyone who doesn’t
feel this much a mystery?
Is there anyone who can say
that they’re solved?
This, this, is the only thing,
this is who I’ve always been.
This is the only place
you’ll find me preserved,
though I’m shrouded in smoke.
I can’t commit to anything more,
I cannot tell what I do not know,
and certainty promises
that which does not exist,
and I box my ears,
and never would speak it.
I’ve always been obsessive,
I’ve always been so secret.
There are photos lost on hard drives,
and journals with missing pages;
lost bits of me circle in and out
of existence like a fog.
I never can stay,
at least not for long.
Even this might be too much,
even this, I might tear up.
