Footsteps Full of Questions

This poem is a tribute to that part of me that’s always been more interested in “away” than “safe,” more drawn to mystery than permanence.

**********************************************

I swallowed a spark once, just to see what kind of forest might grow in my ribs,

and now my laughter smells like moss and meteor dust,

my shadow keeps changing shape when no one’s looking,

and my footsteps leave questions behind like crumbs for beasts with names I made up on the spot.

You said my eyes held too much wonder to stay,

but I kissed you anyway, gently, with the dirt still on my knees,

because loving for a moment is better than never seeing someone shimmer through the fog.

I live in a dreamscape stitched together by upside-down maps and improbable birds,

my vision woven from clouds and crickets and the silence just before a storm forgets its name.

Even if I vanish into one of the places I invent,

even if my stories unravel mid-sentence,

know this—

I meant it all, especially the part where I smiled and didn’t look back.

*********************************************