Am I taking advantage of you,
of your always being there, here,
walking with me?
When my foot leaves the earth, yours takes its place.

Sometimes I start a poem and stop,
unable to finish.
"I haven't felt the emotions for this one yet,
to give it what it needs, to water it, make it grow,"
I think. "Some future version of me...
she will know,
she has those words stored up,
they'll flow,
but not for me, not quite,
not yet, no."

You're like one of these poems.
Do you know
how many times I've started, just to
stop and think, "Whoa,
not quite, not yet, no.
I haven't quite mastered this craft."
Save draft.