I tried something new…
I sat at my desk today to write a blog post and I wound up staring at photographs on my wall for more than an hour. This is not the first time I’ve lost myself thinking about my travels this year. I’ve only been home for a few weeks, yet the travel itch has already returned. I’m beginning to realize just how much I miss France and Russia. France, especially, has been a consistent throb in my side this last week. I tried to write a typical blog post about just how much I miss my exchange, but nothing I wrote sounded right.
I gathered up a few songs that said it just right, (To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra, So Close to Magic by Aquilo… ) but that felt like cheating.
Recently, I’ve been experimenting with poetry to sort through my thoughts, and it’s something I’ve found both cathartic and rewarding. I wrote something about this strange sort of longing that I feel for the life I had in France last year.
Here it is…
Air falls from my lungs when that song hits just below the ribs–
The one I listened to on metro nights just shy of 299 times.
I ride the crescendo till I’m knocked off my feet.
Looks like longing found her way in.
She’s woven through September air,
stirred into my coffee,
bleeding through headphones,
reaching out from my camera roll and
lunging from a polaroid.
She settles down onto my chest.
She crawls out of my heart and winds down my spine.
She’s an ache that rests behind my eyes and casts 6:00 AM fog
so thick I choke on tendrils of molten music.
She taps at my head
like she smells the sweet, sticky memories I left on the counter
and wants a taste.
Six weeks of Russia and six months of France bundled beneath my eyebrows.
Warm memories freeze my fingertips.
Neurons trapped under frost
fire slow signals that lull across glass tipped grass and
are broken by stumbling feet who seek to save a lick of dexterity
so I may write my way away.
Today’s plans cease into long winter slumbers with the ring of Fall outside the window,
of a home I once longed for
plagued tonight by this evening’s treasured guest,
the friend who settles over my shoulders,
at the ring of a piano’s first key.
She, who thrives on memory, lives in past tense
eager for the future where I return to far away–
far away across an ocean,
a few hundred miles of sea churning with demons
that once lunged for my wrists.
I lay on my mattress, lulled by piano strokes
that grab at wanderlust with greedy fingers
and choke my new today,
too busy missing yesterday to remind me to breathe.
I remember the last sidewalk café,
last bus ride through Theater Square,
last croque monsieur and bowl of borscht,
last “Oui, madame” and “Non, merci”,
last sunrise trek and morning bises,
last click of black boots on cobblestone streets,
last embrace with a foreign friend.