Something has disappeared that was no good after all.

In a late night happy-tired stretch
she sees she’s just the same she that she’s
always been,
and she feels will always be.
Not a teacher, not a writer,
not a spiritual person,
not wearing this religion or waving that flag,
not even a mother or wife,
not nothing
not something either.

Earlier that day she met together with others
in sameness
with no thought
“We are the same”.  Just meeting them
as that moment came along
then the next and the next,
like a good tap dancer
meets each moment of rhythm with matching feet.

Later (now)
reflection comes when sleep doesn’t.
She’s alone
and happy to be alone,
in bed with her lover, the night.
Alone with her friend,
a book which she smiles and cries at,
then remembers how to write from its
encouraging nudge.
The writing of it is for herself,
for later when she has forgotten the night, and the
tears and the
closeness of her self.
And she believes it is for
all those imagined others
for whom this writing will be a tuning fork
that wakes their hum to
vibrations of sameness.

Oh right…
now she clarifies—
She is not even she.
But for the convenience of naming,
it trails along.