Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.’ Rumi

 

Where are you hiding, my love?

I know you’re in here somewhere.

Somewhere inside, a long time ago, I made space

and now I just need to retrace

my steps to the place

where I first made that sweet soft bed

of moss, autumn leaves and longings –

the place I’ve been keeping you safe

until I’m ready,

ready to see your face.

 

Oh, who am I kidding?

I’m sorry.

I’m full of shit sometimes.

Truth is, I’ve been busy –

doing my own thing.

You know?

 

Okay, if I’m going to be honest –

now this is quite hard to say:

I buried you in one of those drawers of my heart

where I keep all the things I don’t think about,

but can’t be arsed to throw away

because I think I might need them one day.

 

Like old batteries and foreign currency and dirty old garden string.

I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on. You know?

And I’m scared because I had a rummage the last time I got lonely,

but couldn’t find you amongst any of those things.

 

You’re not like that, are you?

You’re lovely: kind from your head to your toes –

I’ve always known –

and all along I know you’ve kept me inside, kept me near,

warm in the palm of your world-weary hand or

deep in the shell of your ear.

 

I’m sorry.

I promise I’ll make it up to you.

I’ll know you at once from theveryfirstsecond we meet

and from that day on, you’ll be cherished –

I’ll even wear you, if you like

like this heart –

this heart

that I wear

on this sleeve.