I can see time slipping through my hands as I wait for you. Twos, tens, fives roll over my fingers as I try to grasp something that cannot be held.
Fifteen years past, I'm still waiting. Memorizing numbers from phones that aren't yours, recalling numerous facts about people who aren't you. I've tasted lips without a spark and held cold and worn hands-searching for you.
Every second, day, month, decade I'm coming closer to and farther from you. I'm another year closer to my grave. And another year closer to "knowing where I'm supposed to be going in my life."
I don't know where I'm going at all. I'm stuck in the same routine. All the while, writing this letter-to you-a person who may or may not exist. Maybe you did exist at one point but don't anymore. Maybe you never did and no one was ever made in thought of me.
So here I am: feet stuck in this small town, not having moved for eight years. Here I am, hoping that when my parents told me that if I were ever to get lost, that I should stay in one place to be true. Because I'm lost and I don't know what to do.
I was raised on movies, books, and songs all cultured around loving someone as the center of your life. I don't know how to live any other way.
I see two people in fluorescent uniforms driving a cement truck; coming to re-pave these streets. The aching question tugs within: Do I up my life and move to the unknown or stay here forever in hopes of you finding me?
YOU ARE READING
Poems
Poetry"I know that sometimes for people, I feel like too much; But let me kiss away the phantom pain that the scars remind you of, Let me kiss the burns on your hands, From when you touched the burning fire within my soul. Let me show you that yes, I am...
