Just yesterday
in the shower
of everything forgotten,
out popped a letter I wrote
to myself at 14. Funny,
even then, I was feeling
lost, reminding myself
it’s okay to grab onto
the rail and rest a bit.
It’s years later, jobs
and lovers and parents
gone, but here I am
holding this letter,
all yellow and ink-smudge,
still getting lost, still
reaching for the rail,
and wondering how
after all these years
and different apartments
life always manages
to find your address.