I look for you
in lines of print
in frames of film
and day and night dreams too
I don't want to find you
but i so very often do
and i try not to look at your eyes
try not to imagine them
try not to remember them
looking into mine.
Eager, as ever, to keep hold of the spider web threads that tie me to home, I seek out news. Always news. "What news is there from home?" The city comes to life for me then. In the retelling of christenings and graduations, backyard parties and drives in the desert, I see home through another's eyes. My old eyes. All the while, through the excited whispering of the chisme of their six degrees, I smile. I am quiet, with my head held high, afraid and hopeful. I listen for your name.
The mail comes and I carry it to my room. Flopping onto the bed, arms dangling over one side, heels kicked up and swaying behind me, I flip through glossy pages of a homegrown publication. Pleased to see the mountains and amused at the society photos, I am also mesmerized by the turning of the pages. I want to stop and toss the whole piece away from me. I don't. Instead I look for your initials, for the names of associates who might lead my eyes to you, the words that will warn me if your face waits on another page. I exhale when I reach the end, relieved that you are nowhere to be seen. And disappointed.
My writing world is of new media, of tech meeting art, and home thrives in those circles, my circles. But they are the most treacherous for me. Every link, every video still, every shared post on my beautiful city makes me hesitate. Are you behind it? Will your voice give life to the narrative? Were your hands on the camera? Will your name appear and warn me to turn away? Or without warning will your face appear--your profile, your jaw line, a view of the city taken over your shoulder, or your silouhette in the frame? That's when I do turn, cast my eyes down to lessen my focus. I tell myself, "Don't look. Don't look at him." Pretend not to see.
Pretend it never happened. It's better that way.
And yet I look for you...still and, perhaps...always.

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