It's like watching the world through a window,
Things happen and people go to places you will never have the comfort of seeing,
Things happen in which you will never have the reassurance of being.
Faces pass for years,
And once they're gone you invite them back to sit in a room with you and talk,
or even just quietly stare.
None of them will be there.
You can't remember exactly when you had something,
because now it is nothing but remembering what you had,
and the dog curled up in your lap,
and the voice in your mind,
and the smoke in your lungs,
and the memory of a hand over yours and a voice that no longer speaks,
whispering that it will be okay.
Watching the world through a window,
You ask yourself what okay really means.
YOU ARE READING
Sunset Footnotes
Poetryjust a collection of short works. read them, feel them, and enjoy them.
