Heather Miles, Haunt

Nostalgia frequently overlaps anticipation.

 

These are just different names for longing. For wanting. For the endless road. For how sometimes fleeting glimpses of the unsaid thing flash through my heart, break it just so, then leave me in the stagger of “more.”

 

I am in love with the sensed world, the construction which lies behind my eyes and has soft velvet edges and where I am sometimes visited, sometimes celebrated, but always left again alone, little princess with her specter.

 

Which is to say, that I hate to go, but I sure love to walk away.

 

Love to sing to the corners of empty rooms, empty lanes that fall fast from my window as I beat a hasty path toward the ever darkening night. Love the thick blue light that buoys a jazz player’s steel brushes from the slowly sinking swamp, singing out into the dancing effervescent air, making halos around the streetlamps. Love the gilded memories of all the places I am from and all the places I am going, which are the same thing, and all the places in between.

 

Home is where I have lived and loved; home is where I have wanted. Home is where I have been wanted. It is where I have left, returned, paced the globe leaving circular tracks embedded in the map of what I am searching for, defining the shape of the unnamed thing, a carnival ride I can’t get enough of, the earth engraved like an invitation to a party that never begins but always ends

too soon.

 

So I guess, then, that this is a love letter, to you. To all of the guests, the carnies, the drivers, the wanters, the gilded dancers and drummers, inhabitants of rooms and hearts, specters and spirits all,

 

You are the stuff my dreams are made of

 

You are what wells up inside and spills over the edges

 

You are what I long for

no matter how many times I leave.

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