an ocean heart

a poem of sorts

the sun climbing up the western sky
a moth on my windowsill

a birch twig in my mother's porcelain vase

and the first born leaves

of the spring

she is coming

slowly but surely

and i'm thinking of going

for a walk outside

and dreaming of leaving

far away to places

i've never been

to places i'll never see
for my feet are glued to this floor

and rooted to this earth

it's the woods perhaps

the woods of this land
perhaps the birch forests

or the ever so familiar tall pine forests
i still remember
the rough surface
of the pine
i greeted last autumn
but i also remember
the rough surface
of the fingertips
i dreamed of
on my skin once
i remember my dreams
and i remember the ghosts on my skin
and the loneliness of the past
and i wonder if i will ever leave
or if i will always stay
and if i will always stay alone
now it is but a sweet solitude
a sweet caress 

of the rough fingertips of loneliness
on my heart and soul
a silence that hums
in the corners of the rooms sometimes
and embraces me gently at nights
and keeps me company at noons
and even now i find myself
longing for more of solitude
for at other hours there is
the purring of my cats
and the laughter of my brothers
and the muffled conversations of my parents behind the wall
only moments before the silence of the night
the loud mess that is all of us speaking at the same time
and the moments we spend together
and suddenly i realize
i am not alone anymore
not lonely
and so i find myself happy
and yet longing for solitude
somehow