Wondering why

Maybe because he woke up one morning, older than he ever thought he'd be. Like a poet with a heart of glass, the winds of time too stubborn to let him go back. And there I was, with all the choices that could make it easier to forget.

Empty attics placing ads in their dusty windows for ghosts. Dark cellars tying to hang on to their damp shadows. It’s not so hard to find friends, the difficulty lies in wanting them. The future walks around in its fancy clothes, thinking I care how it’s dressed.

Maybe it’s my fatal flaw, to think everyone must love me. Just because I love them. Feelings like oversized umbrellas, only it’s not raining. Every step forward should equal all the ones taken back. But I know it doesn’t work that way. Potential with no ambition. Straw houses wishing they were made of bricks.

Still looking for some way to prove that all that isn't real now, once was.

Shiny objects

It’s the glimmers in all the broken bits and pieces. That brief sparkle that makes me stop and consider that there once was something whole and complete.

It’s the subtle glances and the shy smiles and the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline. I am an abandoned seashell amongst so much sand. Consuming the sunlight and believing my hunger has been forgiven.

If I close my eyes, I can sometimes see the future. The colors faded as if having been in the light for too long. My map in shreds, but still promising that it can lead me there.

Unlock the door, turn the knob, take that first step. Going in is always easier than coming out. The hours stretch like rubber bands, but never seem to break. The walls only as real as they need to be. The floor close enough to break my fall - if it comes to that.

I can pick a million daisies and ask my question to the petals, but love will still melt like sugar if it’s left out in the rain.

Soon

It’s been awhile, maybe too long. Like going home after being away for many years. Things familiar, yet foreign.

I want to write again, but not about the same old things. Like hanging on to clothes that will never fit again. Give them away. Clean out the closets. Even forever has its limits.

The words inside my head like crowded goldfish in a tank. They might all look the same, but I’ll keep trying until I net the ones I want.

Gone

“You’re never going to learn,” she thought to herself, in between all the voices screaming in her head. So overwhelmed with the option of just giving up. To accepting the facts. That she’s not even close to where she wants to be. Deciding that she must be that easy to forget.

It was nice, for a little while. The lies keeping her warm. A heart pretending to care. Believing in something that was never really true.

But then she blinked and it was gone.

Next time

Days later and I am waiting again. Because waiting is all I can do. A little lamb reasoning with a hungry wolf. Thinking it will actually listen. I knew just how many steps I should take, but still I kept on walking. Crossing lines and killing time that should have been used for another conversation.

I juggle the opportunities like running chainsaws and then wonder why I’m bleeding. A little pain goes along way, like echoes in empty spaces. What I want to say stuck in my head. The stairs go up, but they lead to nothing. Just more bricks in a wall that’s already been built too high.

If I was someone else this might all be different. Say good-night and that would be enough. Morning comes and it’s another day. But I’m still me and it will never be enough.

Closer

I guess I think I’ll find comfort in his answer. And when I don’t I ask again. Hoping for a different reply.

I start with the corners and work my way in, but this puzzle is never complete. Too many pieces that never fit, and not enough that do.

Part of the deterrent is knowing that I can only die once. If I don’t like it, I can’t try again. I keep thinking life might be better without all these walls. But it might also show me just how alone I am.

Believing I have nothing to offer the world that it hasn’t already seen a million times. Lost just the flipside of found. Assembling my future with tape and glue and then watching it all fall down.

Sometimes it feels like fiction. Choosing my words one syllable at a time. Counting backwards so it will seem like I am getting closer.

If only I could ever be close enough.

And then there were five

Counting the days like I usually count my steps. To and from, one mistake to the next. The sun sets the same no matter where I am. And rises the next day like a ghost from an unmarked grave.

It will feel good to say I've been there. Once I've left this place. It seems I'm not as accomplished at being alone as I thought. Conversations with imaginary people help pass the time, but my future remains as uncertain as ever. Hoping there might be someone waiting for me. Knowing I'm probably too lost to be found.

Nevermind

It was a stupid idea. To think that writing about any of this would change a thing.

I'm counting the days.

It's all I can do.

Touch

Crying slowly, like falling raindrops. A muted sigh that might be mine. So much sadness everywhere. I pull a tissue from the box and another grows to take its place. Life is nothing but repetition. People walk in just as easily as out. The red glow of taillights in the darkness. Raindrops on the glass making the most beautiful abstracts. Out of all this ugliness.

Faint words written in yellow chalk across the blackboard. A map, perhaps, to help me find that island. As lost as I have been, it makes me wonder if anything will be different there. It’s the lies that make the moments possible. Truth is little more than a nightlight that keeps us from walking into things.

If I go too far back I won’t exist. And then I’ll never be able to touch anyone.

This time

It’s worse than the emotion itself; having to pretend, sometimes, that none of this is happening. That these feelings aren’t real. Just everyday sensations jacked up on lust and passion. Most likely to settle back down once the excitement has receded. A smoldering pile of ash that will grow cold once our backs are turned.

The blade is dull, but it still manages to cut right through me. A cold wind from the north that refuses to accept winter is over. It’s always just around the corner, a hello or a goodbye. A selfish decision that has become the most beautiful of mistakes.

He asks me what I‘m thinking and I tell him. Like giving a stranger directions, or the time. And then I wait. For the cracks to form and the sky to fall. So certain I’ll lose him in the future. Counting my steps to a door that may never open.

There are many things he chooses to forget, I can only hope this will not be one of them.