The Cartography of Once
by M. Allshouse
I loved you once—
your words were epiphanies,
wrapping my mind
in indulgent dreams.
I didn’t know the road,
but you led me,
convinced me
of what I couldn’t see.
You had a map;
I had no compass.
“Thirteen paces north,”
you said—
“that’s where love resides.”
Enraptured,
I followed,
smiling through the thorns,
happy to be lost
if it meant being yours.
But you tossed the map
into the river
with little regard
for where the current
might take me.
You were quite the hiker—
I didn’t know.
This trail was your favorite,
worn smooth
by other wandering hearts.
I would have carried the tent,
stayed close to your side,
but you vanished in the night—
back to civilization,
leaving me
a solitary camper,
alone,
lost,
vulnerable.
A ranger found me,
kind eyes and steady voice,
guided me home
because he liked my smile
at the view.
And now you ask
why I won’t return
to the trailhead,
why I refuse to redraw
the map you discarded
like my heart.
The Cartography of Once
by M. Allshouse
I loved you once—
your words were epiphanies,
wrapping my mind
in indulgent dreams.
I didn’t know the road,
but you led me,
convinced me
of what I couldn’t see.
You had a map;
I had no compass.
“Thirteen paces north,”
you said—
“that’s where love resides.”
Enraptured,
I followed,
smiling through the thorns,
happy to be lost
if it meant being yours.
But you tossed the map
into the river
with little regard
for where the current
might take me.
You were quite the hiker—
I didn’t know.
This trail was your favorite,
worn smooth
by other wandering hearts.
I would have carried the tent,
stayed close to your side,
but you vanished in the night—
back to civilization,
leaving me
a solitary camper,
alone,
lost,
vulnerable.
A ranger found me,
kind eyes and steady voice,
guided me home
because he liked my smile
at the view.
And now you ask
why I won’t return
to the trailhead,
why I refuse to redraw
the map you discarded
like my heart.