I am her.
An intention floated through time.
A silky patchwork of hope and knowing.
An effort weaved through fate wrapped around whispers
I want to be this, and not so much that. Soon.
A drawing of light and shooing away everything else
I didn’t need, didn’t want, didn’t care to celebrate
It is simple and complicated
It is complicated and ridiculous
It is ridiculous and ambitious
Not always am I her, but more of the time
Much of the time
Lately when I slip out, can’t breathe
Then I dash back, linger like a continent
She is home, always arms open