If

I was more of a traveller
before anything happened,
before I knew if anything would,

a disbelieving traveller
into the dark with no goodbyes from
people I knew only in passing,
and nothing ahead but wanting.

My breath catches
at the thought of those journeys
from cold freedom in one house
to another with the first flakes of Winter,

one thousand miles by bus through the
making of false claims to impress
strangers. My mouth tasted bitter.
Dangerous fantasies bedeviled my mind.

I was a young, blind worm,
covered with sweat in the dark.