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Away from the hunger for love,
I realized I am also
hungry for other things.
Hungry, for instance,
for the pealing bells
of clarity,
for my lost youth,
its flowered skirts
flowing and falling in
yards of fabric and faith
where I’d sit
at a gypsy campfire
celebrating stories of life
that was once so vast
in its mystery, serenading
the moon every night
with possibilities.
Sometimes I think
I lost too much
just to get here.
Sometimes I wonder if
I’m even no longer lost.
Sometimes I wonder where
is here on the map of
all things that will
ultimately matter,
if fate had marked
where I’m standing with
an X for me to find,
or if I am only almost
about to come close to
being on the road to
earnestly searching for it,
or if I have been walking
in meditative circles
around it, waiting for
the permission to be
where I am,

that the déjà vus of moments
may be signs that
I was once led,
blindfolded and trusting,
to the river of the life
I was meant to live
and shown the actual
path I was meant to take,
that I stared at it
mesmerized, stitching
as many impressions onto
the hems of my soul as
the beautiful and torturous
whole picture I could
not grasp or get to fit
into my carry-on bundle,
would let me.
Only parts of it
would come back,
and in vague flashes,

none of them showing
any real direction
to cast my faith in
at life’s crossroads,
only fragments of
conversation I’d recognize
from a dream, faces
of strangers on the train,
and the relative position
of sunlight refracted by
the stained glass of
a Norman window
with the winding stairs
and your name at its center.

“Om” by photographer Kerry Murphy