I do not get paid to be an extra
in someone's story. The director
does not offer me notes or cues
on when to interact with the other characters.
I am only there, standing alone
eyes darting around for a subject to speak with.
Even the antagonist drops their sight. The other extras
barely glances at me. Their role is just the same as mine,
but they're hoping they'll outshine me. They brush shoulders,
fingers, as they bump against the crowd.
I remain invisible, lingering in the background,
waiting for my scene to arrive. Ready for a line
in the script. Anxious to be a first choice for once.
No matter how loud I scream that I have yet to tell my story, they will not notice me.
And I know the other dying extras are told the same thing-
write your own script. Make your own production.
Pitch ideas until one sparks, and that becomes your entity.
But it is hard to see that the girl in red
is pushed all the way in the back of the white sea unwillingly.

I'm sitting here thinking about all of the productive things I could be doing at this time of night, instead of sitting here watching Netflix and writing poetry that you won't ever read. But then I remember that there's nothing productive that I'd want to do without you here.

When the wind blows
the heart goes
wild, though you're now known
for resolution
Waving, you wave to meet me
planted feet, we work on

and never will the will divide, subside or enervate
knowing all the drive of future forward
blast the past and liberate
the little pieces to combine
to gain one whole life once shattered
we come to meeting
stand to celebrate

When will this wind stop beating at the windows?
When they ask, tell them straight and lively, it won't.