me, my valentine

long long ago, and far far away, I was in an empty airport late at night alone. the piercings, the streaked hair, the signs of those times. solitary me at 23. traveling to and from foreign places looking for someone. surrounded by foreign tongues.

I just stumbled across this picture and seeing it I remembered that night, and I remembered feverishly scribbling out a poem sitting on that polished floor under those inconsiderate lights. I went looking for that poem, and found it:

what's in it for me?
this separation.
this dislocation.
this lack of sleep in far away airports.
this longing.
this convincing myself that I don't, when every inch of me does.
this conversation in my head.
the thought that anyone who cares has no way of telling me.
the thought that what's in it for me is only the delusion that if I keep moving, I'll eventually forget you.
but no distance could escape you.
you are everywhere.

***

I am here now, only scars where metal once hung and I am able to look at that girl and say, look, it was only a phase. it's all only a phase. and now, the calm that has washed over me like a gift from the deep, I wish I could give it to the girl in the picture. but I know that each phase is necessary and leading to the next. I look at that girl and think of all the miserable valentine's days and realize today, on this day of love, in all her searching for love, she was learning through time and space, distance and long lonely nights, the miraculous art of learning how to love herself. I'm glad she stuck it out.