bone stories

i could tell it so many ways.

there’s the one where i left my heart here
gliding out in silence on a small boat one dry october day
without so much as a by-your-leave
discomfited ever since
by that lack of ceremony, thank you, i love you, you’ll always be a part of me
so whenever i came back
i felt confused, unfinished
loose about the bones.

there’s the one where i had to travel
to the city (too hard)
to the island (no trains)
to the tiny town (too well-behaved)
to know
i had what i long for
all along
which to be perfectly honest
i was perfectly aware of
…just sometimes
life needs to send you on some journey
to learn what your bones already know.

then there’s the one where i’m finally angry
lived-in enough to realise that the people i want around me are
sharp tongued plain talking creased and weathered
northern women
and what feels like home
is blackened sandstone walls
steep stairs
attic rooms with views of rooftops and the hills beyond.

and there’s the one where i left because of heartbreak.
couldn’t remain
where she now lived.
needed to go “do my own thing”,
somewhere else.

perhaps some truth in that.

truth in them all.

where “truth” means myth-making
and bone-deep listening.

the full story is mine.
not for the writing, wording, explaining
not for completing.
it’s mine to know in my bones, deep in my bones,
these bones that call me home.