I never wrote poems about you.
No matter how hard I tried,
I never could seem to make
All the words flow.
Maybe that was the first sign,
That our love,
Was never meant to be.
Maybe that was the first sign,
I so delicately chose,
Not to read.

One day,
The roof of this ancient building will cave
And the remnants held within
Will fade away with time,
And the hourglass will empty,
Never to be flipped again.

As the sand drops,
Dust will be left in it's wake;
A new home for stories and handprints,
Visceral imagery that screams,
"We were here."

Humans have always and forever
Wanted to be known,
You and I,
Wanted to be known —
Known by each other,
In those few hours we spent together.

This old building knows our story,
And our lives are written on the walls.
It broke my heart to see,
That our handprints had been erased.

It broke my heart because,
To disturb the dust,
Is to disturb the story.

At least,
That's what you told me
In that brief moment
So long ago.

I thought it was just me,
The only one with the problem --

The only one having issues,
Everyone else seemed to be alright --

But, then I find out later,
Much later,
That it wasn't just me,
That you, too, were also stuck --

Going around and round
In circles;
The ****** loop
Of (self) alienation --

It wasn't just me,
It was you too,

You were also fighting
the invisible blocks;
Bad gateways,
Stuck spirals...

Out there trying to figure it all
on your own.