Unmapped
The wind whips sharp and the snow falls soft and there are foot prints in my path: three tracks; two who have walked ahead, and one who walked back and past. This a path often travelled, everything thing I do done before; each footprint already planted, each kiss twice tasted and taken. There is no place that has not been discovered; no land unnamed or unmapped. But it was not me, Friend, who found them: not me that walked them or saw them or knew. With the same words in infinite orders, and the same tides over each of our lives, we will build new stories.
I fell in love with an artist, new love after loves before. We explored our shape: ran tip over blade, and in the arch and stroke unmade our bodies and turned them and they were rearranged. Locked in stare he opened his mouth, breathed in the air I had inhaled and let out. We made oxygen used a hundred times over taste new in our open fresh mouths.
I nod to the stories behind me: every last thing raised up and down. But this one is my one and my time, and the path swings to my feet from behind me, laid out to beg my new sound.
