By Joseph Hesch.
I used to march these rooms half the night,
their blackness the only thing holding me
on an eyeless path I traced, hand outstretched,
sweeping for walls that I knew were there
and for barriers that really weren't.
Even counting my steps, I never quite learned
where to stop before the crash,
before the sparks would light up my mind
but never my vision.
Maybe I was searching for you there,
your brilliance still over the horizon,
not measured in lumens, but in heartbeats,
plunked like strings on a violin,
marking time until you found me,
stumbling, mumbling through my jagged nights.
In this darkness you were surer in your steps,
sure my outstretched hand all that time
was there for you to hold.
And now so connected, where might we go?
Are the maps already drawn?
Or will we explore the world
carried by the words we let drift
in streams like ink, running black
to the oceans of other hearts?