I have loved a lot of things lately.
The sesquicentennial of the Gettysburg Address.
Learning the origin of "The Princess Pat."
Reading a memoir of Malcolm X.
But one important thing hasn't made that list:
It seems that the list of people
whose lives inherently interest me
has decreased dramatically in size.
If that sounds horrible,
I used to be shy
because I didn't know
that I had it in me
to be otherwise.
Then, I learned how to make friends,
and I had so much love in me
that I'd hold anyone's hand
that was near enough to grab.
I don't talk to others
not because I can't,
but because I don't want to.
But as it turns out,
not wanting to for a long time
makes you feel like you can't.
And if my life is like the dust
that hides the glow of a rose,
what good am I?
What good am I?
Heaven only knows.
This story doesn't have a moral
or an adage
or a word of advice at the end.
I don't know how to fix this.
But I still have faith
that somewhere between all these poles,
there's a happy nook to live in.