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I remember the contours of your thought
more than any one thing. Quiet smiles,
drawn out and peppered with tiny points
that irritate and vex, a succulent seasoning
always landed in the best place by surprise.

And the deeper voice, longing to escape
its uniformity, buried in a thousand tasks.

I am left wondering, is confusion cured
by embracing that reasonable state,
where destinations, made to order, fit
snugly as I remember you sitting there? Or
is it worse knowing all that must be done
from now, on past tomorrow, and further,
to replace confusion with a narrow madness
aligned automatically clear out to the end?

Whatever the cause, now you are free
to live beyond an intention only the smallest
fraction left to yourself, ever desired
to begin with – free as you always are
when growth and uncertainty are one,
and the delayed fear of an unknown heart
is revealed, beating as it always appears
but stronger, confident in the new chance.