My Americana
It gets harder not to fall in love with strangers.
Harder not to pack up whatever I have near me and follow them to wherever they are going,
sit close to them on the 101 Bus and watch a new landscape surround us.
The only questions out of curiosity, never fear.
But the world is full of strangers only so long. Once you say their name, they are no longer strangers.
Once you see the same shape in the sky, say the same word, see them smile and know what it means,
they are no longer strangers.
Ten miles down the road I begin to ask, "How do we get back? Where did we turn left? Are there brakes?"
Loving strangers, wanting to give them all of you, willing to take all of them, is easy.
It is often as simple as asking.
The sunlight can give you the strength. (And the dark too, you know this.)
But to want what you can have, to be vulnerable to those with whom you are already vulnerable,
to no longer have to ask questions, for there to no longer be questions you want to ask,
for there to be no distance between you,
for there to be a void between you that is more reliable than a solid --
