I feel wistful.

Wistful of talents I do not have,
and places I have not been.
But then I remember,

Time is limitless if I choose it to be.

So many choices, decisions, prospects,
endless opportunities.
And while others experience,
I flounder.

In the inbetween state,
tiptoes up to the edge
but not daring to jump,
not yet.

Scared of what truth the idealised holds in store for me.

I am to find m self in the embrace of a lover,
skin to skin.
Or in a high so high the sighs of my yesterdays are forgotten.
Or am I to find myself always expecting, craving more.

Craving I had choosen different choices,
made different decisions,
followed different prospects.

All these endless opportunities,
but here I stand afraid.
Afraid to chance regret.
Afraid to chance wasted time.
Afraid to chance.

Afraid.

I wish I could ariculate,
but it has all been written before.
And yet here I am still dreaming of the ineffable, the inexplicable, the as yet udetermined.

Oh to be a cliche,
idealising times of the past
while th present grows bleaker.

Things lack beauty.
The beauy I find in books and films, are lies when it comes to my reality.
And the arduous task of going on feels like a puzzle impossible to solve but one I cannot leave alone.
Things lack beauty,
for me.

Life lacks the luster I have been shown previously existed,
and by romantising the previous, I only pull myself furthe away from the beauty I know must be here.
It must.
Must't it?

However the rare specks of it I find are the ones in her eyes.
And they parade themselves infront of me, knowingly.

But such things have been written before and will be wrote again.
And yet still I wish to articulate.

Oh to be a cliche.