I looked for her on the rooftops of Brooklyn,
the makeshift balconies of Manhattan,
and the subway in between.
On the mountaintops of Spain,
the dirty pubs of Dublin,
and every European train.
On southern country roads,
and the foothills of Tennessee,
and a lake house preserving childhood dreams.
In the classrooms of philosophers and mystics,
the offices of scholars,
and the garden of a Buddhist.
In a home painted yellow,
behind an ill-fitting apron,
and white picket fence.
In the cramped apartments of men who wrote,
and beneath the sheets of those who understood.
On the folded pages of library books,
the texture of painted canvas,
and the sound of piano keys.
I looked for her through my bedroom window,
barefoot and hardly clothed,
not lonely, but alone.
I looked for her,
and did not find her,
but instead, created her.