“What you seek, is seeking you” – Rumi

It hung in the air suspended by its own gravity

Followed me into the coffee shop

Cut in front of me in the supermarket queue

When I got home, no doubt about it, it was there at the table,

Waiting patiently, cradling a question mark

Yearning to be accepted in all its jagged edges

Insecure about its clichéd origins

But certain of its innate swagger

Its syllabic wrap resounding in my ears

Rolling around on my tongue

Pondering connotations, associations, discerning choices

Compelling me to inscribe

Breathe air into it.