All my poems are about me

Your world is manufactured; made of forevers.
Of smaller countability infinities

Manufactured neatly on an endless assembly line to fold inside a single human life
Your forevers are pieces on a chaotic spice shelf or budding needles on a pine tree
You use phrases like "In ten years" and "mentor my children"

But you see, my world is made too
Made in broad sweeping strokes of the sound of the word 'wanderlust'
I know that my butterfly wings are beautiful, but I also know that they will crumble beating fruitlessly against the glass jar of mundanity.

How could a butterfly explain to a rock the infinite nature of now?
When I land on your solidity, how can I explain how the knowledge that I will one day take off is not the wind under my fragile wings but warmth in my tiny butterfly heart, keeping me for a minute longer?

How can I explain the vastness of now?
The vastness of all the water in the ocean,
All the air around my wings, all the colors of the sky when the sun dips below the last horizon

How can I tell you the true enormity of my "now" is vast enough to encompass any of "the rest of our lives"
How can I tell you that your forevers are as cryptic to me as tectonic plates are to a butterfly, able only to rest upon a rock, resting upon countless miles of dirt, unable to fathom the the earth shaking movements below.

My poetry teacher told me never to write in absolutes.
"Start small," he said, "avoid *eternity* and *love* and *forevers*"
I think he would have found your attitude disturbing.
I would like to see you and him go head to head.

Perhaps this poem isn't fair to you.
Probably, there are things you would like to tell me
About the power of eternity
About the beautiful mundanity of alphabetizing a never ending spice cabinet
About the joys of discovering turmeric and oregano and that last bit of cinnamon you thought you finished
Probably you'd like to tell me about how there's always another spice to be found behind the last one and the job seems less intimidating when you break it into sections.
Probably, something like that

But not at all.
Don't expect a butterfly to be fluent in geology.

I'd like to offer some exposition, please
Because when you were celebrating weekly shabbos dinners with your family, I was leaving high school behind for college.
By the time you got to college, the wanderlust took me over again.
For a year and a half I roamed, never in the same place for more than two months.
I snapped up facebook friends like berries on the side of a trail.
I left "keep in touch"s behind like dust on a gravel road.

I heard “forever”s burnt up like matches in a wind.

Your friends have stayed since freshman year of your high school,
Before, even.
Since freshman year I've worn through more pairs of hiking boots than I can count.
I've changed my hair, my clothes, my hobbies, my friends, and even my name.
No bed is more familiar than another to me and I fall asleep every time I sit down because I've had less comfortable places to lay my head than this plastic school chair, more times than I can count.

Do you remember what the bed in your parents’ house feels like?
I don't even remember where the bed I slept in last night was.
I just know my back is getting sore.
And when I arrive, aching and disheveled at your doorstep, you offer me a shoulder rub.
And then you use words like "forever".

I don't know how to tell you that my "now" doesn't exclude "tomorrow" or "next week" or "next decade".
But when I don't know who I'll be "tomorrow" I can't say if that person will love you.
I can't say if that person won't love you either.

I imagine you build to last.
I think that in all likelihood, when the earth has boiled and the stars have flamed and died, your love will be left alongside the ancient pyramids and the towering skyscrapers of manhattan.
For you must take love brick by brick and lovingly lay each one into a tower of babylon, soaring until you can reach out with your fingers and touch the sky.

How can I explain, bricklayer, that my love is like the air in my lungs?
There one second, gone the next, and completely vital to my existence.
How can I explain I learned the futility of holding my breath?
That I tried and my face turned blue as the slow seconds ticked away and my lungs cried out for oxygen.
How can I explain that for every exhale, the next inhale tastes just as sweet, sweeter, even?

But I would have you know, if you read no other of my labored ramblings

That a shoulder rub from you feels as close to home as I've come in three years.

That your face has been one of my only constants for the past four months.

The easiest “solve for x” since basic algebra.

I know the curve of your smile better than the curve of any road I drive.

That terrifies me.

That delights me.

That I looked upon a rock, beat my wings in the warm sun, and that here is where I landed.