movement

I bob & weave & trip over boxes--

some waiting to be filled,

some already overflowing.

Anxious desire fuels me

to "just get it over with"--

hurry up & move from home,

into home.

When that worn key turns the lock

one last time

I can reset my life,

unlock a new save point,

so I can respawn at a better time

than the one I found a year ago.

There aren't enough hours in the day

or logistics accounted for

to make this transition any quicker,

any less bitter, anymore sweet.

As the air cools & the humidity

draws out & the days shorten,

I sit and imagine what life will be like

on the other side of this--

this moment,

this city,

my pain.

At night I lay in bed

in a chaotically barren room

& feel pangs of the emptiness

of my past self.

Yet I know my boxes will be filled,

my soul will replenish,

& the past will feel that much further away

once I move on again.