The sand underneath my feet,
The sun shining above me,
The water dripping from my hair,
And him telling me about his future.
How weird it is that for once,
I don't want to talk about me,
I want to sit still and listen to his plans,
And his studies,
And the countries he wants to go to,
And how better life is, out there, in Europe, where he lives.
And I wonder, how can someone have their life together at his age?
Who on earth knows exactly what they are doing, in their twenties?
I don't ask him if he's ever thought of dying,
I don't ask him about lonely summer nights
where he felt like aching,
I don't ask him if it ever gets so hard that he wants to give up,
I don't ask him about what's waiting for me in a few years,
I just sit there,
Under the hot sun,
Above the soft sand,
Underneath drops of salty water,
And listen to him talk about his future.
YOU ARE READING
My loved ones; a journey.
Poetry“Perhaps one did not want to be loved, as much as to be understood” George Orwell.
