I remember sitting on the front porch, curled up in a wicker chair with a pen and a pad of paper
the early June afternoon sun going down over my smalltown, casting a golden glow on the blacktop,
writing a poem about loneliness
and wondering whether everyone else around me
driving by in that car,
walking their dog,
stirring that drink at the bar,
was as lonely as I was
whether their heart also longed for something more
or felt a loss for what they never reached for in the first place
whether they were settling and giving up on their dreams
or had they finally decided to go for it,
That job
That person
That trip
That thing that makes their heart beat faster and gets their blood flowing
That thing that makes them feel free
or was I the only one,
in a world overflowing with people,
could I be the only one who gave it all up,
too afraid to make the change my soul was aching for?