I stole away, with an
Angel intent on keeping
Me company, for my
Last day on earth
She drew my name in the clouds with
Ink she bought from God,
Broke my bed,
Ripped my blankets, and
Sat me down to
Mock my ignorance
Needing a place to sit,
We built a bench, out of
Broken promises
Each knot in the wood
Melted into a bitter syrup, as I
Recommitted it to memory
We drank coffee behind the
Store that sold my
Innocence to those more
Deserving of the
Luck they’d received.
Their tender was
Myth and merchandise,
Final sale,
No return.
The torn soles, on the shoes I
Wore, slid softly through the
Field of grinning flowers, their
Beauty rivaled only by their
Obvious ignorance
Fingers wrapped my wrist,
Departure was inevitable
Wings spread, we soared over the
Blue and purple of the
Flowers, shaded darkly by the
Sun’s embarrassment
But from miles up, my
Sight, seemingly unchanged by my
Decreasing proximity
Showed me their vigilant smiles
Had she dropped me
Anywhere else, the
Beautiful field of
Terminal foliage
Would sway the same, with
Each windy eve
I woke up, drunk on
Sleep and whiskey, as the
Sobering veracity of my
Failure to keep dreaming
Became achingly apparent.
I grew up, under the impression that I'd probably end my life at age 18.
I wrote this poem on Day 6,575.
(I'm 20 now. :)
18 + one day more.
