Pacific Street

There are oceans in our neighborhood.

I have that spark that drives me far away. Far away from my familiar. My family. My friends. I pulled at the reigns of my home town, of every thing I knew. I gasped for air as if the very sky could choke me if I but stood still.

I dreamt bigger than people thought was safe. I refused council and strode forward on my own. I burnt bridges along the way; I left the path. I got lost.

I never quite made it back to where I started, but that was always okay.

I swear I've never been this far before.

I looked to the night sky and wandered. When I felt the grasp of someone's hopes too hard on my heart, I packed up and moved on. I couldn't share my dreams, my path. I would not settle for roots when I knew I could have wings.

I feel restless and I can't sleep.

I would not dream of flying when I could fly.

It wasn't alwasy easy and I was rarely sure. There were many lonely nights of the stereo turned too loudly so my neighbors wouldn't hear me cry. Many early mornings wandering the streets of a city that often felt not quite right, looking for where I must have put my wings.

Where they must be, in this city of millions.

Washed up in some corner bar.

I reveled in being one of thousands. I felt, all the same, out of step.

And then one day, as I turned a corner I had a hundred times before, it was home. Suddenly in the rain and the mist. In the dirty crowd among the buses, I was home.

Stay where we are . . .

And suddenly the sky felt far away, wide and open. The sidewalks stretched before me with every adventure I had ever dared dream.

And my heart soared on wings it had always possesed. Past the buildings, past my fears. Past my loneliness.

Not because you found my wings, not even becasue you gave them to me. But simply because you smiled.

I don't know you except for the way a traveler knows a traveler.