It withers

near a bare
tree,

under skies
filled with
gray.

It withers

with tired petals
amid dullness, and

rain.

I see it wither

here.

I see what

remains.

Poor haggard

thing

with no place to
go.

I see it wither here

without
ever seeing
it

grow.

I have dreams bigger
than this tired town

A waste of space, and
a waste of
lives

A waste

of dreams to ever
leave it.

You're not her,

and
I wish
you were.

She never came
back,

and I'm down
now

in the cracks of the sidewalk
she walks
on.

I think I need to
move, not
on, or
away from

anything

not fast, or
deliberately for

something

not past, or
beside

someone

I need to
move

because
I haven't in so long.

My life is a city street
and you
were my favorite
red light.

I thought I was a hole
before I met
you

and when
I did

I was filled.

Then
you left —

I was empty
again.

I wasn’t a hole,

never was,

but a
cup

waiting

for someone
to fill me.