The glass is not half full today,
it is simply overflowing.
My pulse is not in my chest, it's in my ears
the sun is not in the sky, it's in my eyes
my eyes are pressing notes onto yellow rough pages,
fingers fumbling, occasionally misguided;
aimlessly scratching what I am
(what am I?),
but it's not just fluff and clouds here, there's a soft and shallow tune playing in the corners;
it follows my footsteps wherever I go and hides in my shadow, elusive, and I
have never heard of such a thing from any text or book,
but I am yearning now and I have come to believe in phantoms that lurk
in silence waiting for subtle signals,
things we may never identify
in neither origins or nature,
but we open our doors and our hearts to them anyway;
we feel their heavy tug under our skin and we are restless
but we must be patient;
This is me in the doorway,
waiting with my arms at my sides and my socks getting ***** from the dust on the floor,
this is me standing in the doorway
and the drink in my hand is not full, it is spilling
all over me like time in a bowl
like words in my throat;
and there is me, quietly,
tea stained wet socks, a bright smile
and there is me, patiently,
patiently waiting.
