I don't know how to not count
my footsteps, I tread
lightly on foreign ground because I fear
any semblance of change and I fear
disturbing this place and time with my presence.
take it all out of me. It comes
back to me with flashes behind my eyelids, but I'm learning
to let the dust settle after I brush it off
of my hands.
Late night promises turning into
roadmaps to lead us through the half-plans and changing seasons,
I scarf this down with abandon because time
does not always wait for us and so I want to inhabit
all the corners of your psyche before it is too late, before we take a wrong turn and the maps
we drew up no longer apply.
taste my solitude, it ripens
with the sweetness of new fruit because, after all,
even I can change, and it seems you've sculpted
a masterpiece out of me while I played
unaware in your
shade.
Toss this up into the wind, I have no need of maps
in the future I seek - it is golden all
on its own, and the wrong turns become calculated into
peaceful accidents, new paths into
foreign horizons. I slide these uncertainties
out of their shells and break
them open in the clean
spring air - you always told me to
clean out my closet before worrying
about someone else's.
Do these dreams learn to take flight
in the morning, or remain stagnant like dust
settling over old skeletons?
I'll leave that up to
the sunrise and fate's clumsy fingers, she leaves
me hanging often but in the end her blunders
are always suited to some unknown purpose.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
I don't know how to not count
my footsteps, I tread
lightly on foreign ground because I fear
any semblance of change and I fear
disturbing this place and time with my presence.
take it all out of me. It comes
back to me with flashes behind my eyelids, but I'm learning
to let the dust settle after I brush it off
of my hands.
Late night promises turning into
roadmaps to lead us through the half-plans and changing seasons,
I scarf this down with abandon because time
does not always wait for us and so I want to inhabit
all the corners of your psyche before it is too late, before we take a wrong turn and the maps
we drew up no longer apply.
taste my solitude, it ripens
with the sweetness of new fruit because, after all,
even I can change, and it seems you've sculpted
a masterpiece out of me while I played
unaware in your
shade.
Toss this up into the wind, I have no need of maps
in the future I seek - it is golden all
on its own, and the wrong turns become calculated into
peaceful accidents, new paths into
foreign horizons. I slide these uncertainties
out of their shells and break
them open in the clean
spring air - you always told me to
clean out my closet before worrying
about someone else's.
Do these dreams learn to take flight
in the morning, or remain stagnant like dust
settling over old skeletons?
I'll leave that up to
the sunrise and fate's clumsy fingers, she leaves
me hanging often but in the end her blunders
are always suited to some unknown purpose.