I signed the contract and now I'm here

I signed the contract and now I'm here.

The signature's still wet. The pen is warm.

Nobody told me what comes after this form,

after the wanting stops being unclear.

They teach you how to reach,

how to ache for the thing beyond your grasp,

but not how to handle the clasp

of actually having it. I'm out of reach

of that instruction. I sit

at my kitchen table with the proof

that I arrived. The simple truth

is I don't know what comes next. Not yet.

The light is moving across the paper.

The afternoon is ordinary and strange.

My signature is locked in place, can't change,

and I'm supposed to be past the waiting. Vapor

or solid? Real or still rehearsed?

I have no protocol for this.

No script for the moment after yes.

I sit here like I'm under a curse

of getting exactly what I wanted

and not knowing who to be

now that I'm finally free

to be the person who wanted.