If a compass measured romance and love, it might point North toward you,
But it also might guide me West
For fun, despite a harrowing view. Or perhaps,
East will have what I'm looking for, a place to greet the sun.
When roosters crow their morning song, I'll have already packed and gone.
For South bound love to work for me, I'd need a steadier stride.
No fault of mine, or yours, or anyone's,
It's just not meant this lifetime.
But a compass doesn't measure these things,
Now or ever, and thank god. For if it did,
I'd be unmoored, thinking I was wrong.
Wrong about all the times I left or all the times I stayed,
Untrusting of my gut and the variables of each case.
No, romance cannot be measured thusly,
And so I'm left to say
That love will guide itself to you,
Just don't sit down and wait.
Move about the world as if your lover were always there,
Because they always are, you see?
It's you who really cares.
Your self-love is better than all the romance in the world.
No corner of the earth provides a love that heals
Like fennel, or any other cure.
So, love yourself, my friends, and I'll stay busy loving me,
And if our paths should ever cross,
We will be complete.
About the Creator
kp
I am a non-binary, trans-masc writer. I work to dismantle internalized structures of oppression, such as the gender binary, class, and race. My writing is personal but anecdotally points to a larger political picture of systemic injustice.
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