I hover at the doorway,
pulling back the curtain
to see a glimpse of the light
you will be walking in,
or that I, upon desiring so,
could have been walking in
The lines of the familiar song
replay in my mind,
as if the writer read my life
and recorded my stolen voice.
Never satisfied, never completely solitary.
And yet seeking such isolation
or immersion to suffocate in
or exhale upon.
What tantamount discoveries have
come to pass through the spectrum of
my high and low, eternally-pacing
the caverns and caves of the things I
will never find?
I hover between the extremes
that hold complicity and conjecture,
like the magnet on the fridge that won't hold.
I think of silhouettes,
standing hand in hand.
And how last summer, as I painted
my way through an odd experiment,
there were no words to be said
-or apologies to be made;
In your eyes I found less
than a year's worth
of sorrows; you told lies the size of giants
just to keep yourself from wishing.
Well, I prophesize.
Some day I will stand between
you and the window, holding a
large vase that was a gift
from a friend.
We will be laughing,
our meanings meeting in the middle
after we realize how right
or wrong we were before.
Before the rain, it smells
like euphoria.
Somewhere behind these walls
we have sat
and waited
for the beginning
or some inevitable end.
