I don’t know why I do it,
why I stand on my balcony
when it’s -30 degrees Celsius
in my shorts and sandals, shirtless,
just to see how long I can stand it.
I don’t know why I do it,
why I keep going back to the same kind of work,
that is stressful and burns me out,
likely shortening the years I have left to live,
not for passion,
but for a sense of duty I wish I didn’t have.
I don’t know why I do it,
why I tell myself I want to settle down
and build community,
but I find myself booking another three-month trip,
stuffing my backpack for another world adventure
that just feels like an escape.
I don’t know why I do it,
why I still weep for you
though you left this world so many years ago,
my heart still heavy with loss,
and my nights melancholy with your memory.