Watching someone's heart die
tastes a lot more like dirt than rust.
It is fresh
and moist,
the taste of life
still lingering in its clutches.

Seeing something great sputter out does not leave a
chemical aftertaste,
for nothing has yet changed,
only dimmed.

As I watch your past
play before my eyes like an old silent film,
I wonder how easily I might guess what
words
you were mouthing.

But the film is over,
the negatives never produced
and all we're left with is a
man of little importance
and left behind potential.

On the phone tonight you told me of how you used to paint
using tie dye
and I guess it was the first time I realized
if I had been your age,
we would have been
good friends.

But what hurts more
than watching your life
pass before my eyes
is looking back on my own life and seeing
what you used to be.

I see you painting the sunset and blasting U2 while cooking dinner.

I see the well worn pages of your script for the latest play-
notes hastily scratched in,
scratched out,
and rewritten.

I see the way you used to speak
when talking to your church
and it hurts because
as hard as I try,
I can't FEEL it anymore.

It seems that now all I feel is the way you
hit
your breaks or
slam
your computer shut
almost as if your heart knows how much is going to waste
and there simply isn't any better way to communicate the pain
that comes from knowing
you've given up.




I remember the day you sold your first painting.
Your eyes were bright and they twinkled.
But now I look at your bedroom walls covered ceiling to floor with the paintings no one ever bought

and I wonder if they sing you to sleep

and I wonder if they haunt your dreams.

And I wonder,
watching you move slower than you used to,
if you gave up your potential without a fight.