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Earth clings to the soles of my feet.
Blisters bloom from walking in circles since time began.
Thousands of miles from where I first drew breath.
I've settled in the abyss where you see my face.
Every place I stand becomes home.
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The thoughts haven't slowed. What changed is who I think I am inside them.
Point at your hand. You see your hand. Point at the place everyone calls your face, and the finger arrives at the room.
Sometimes the question isn't looking for an answer. It's the shape the avoidance takes when it learns to sound like searching.
Some pain isn't a malfunction. It's a measurement of how close you stood to something worth losing.
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