on letting go

mostly i feel lonely
when i think of you.

i had watched the tree
outside my window
and how the wind
ran through it,
pulled it toward
the west. how can
one move when rooted
that way?

i toyed with the thought
of seeing you again
and thought
better of it.

.unfindable.cities.

A trip to the library today revealed that despite my recollection of having returned Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, the library does not in fact have it shelved anywhere. The implication, thus, is that apparently I have made a mistake.
Maybe I never returned it after all.

"Check around. It might have slid under a car seat or something."
It happens, right?

Except I don't drive. So now there are invisible cities all over my bedroom, being by nature undetectable. Not an altogether disheartening thought, in retrospect.

Maybe I, like Marco Polo, will plunge my hands into the unknown and return with a fistful of silk and pasta.