Spend your whole life feeling anxious about everything, unable to breathe,not knowing that you were even anxious or that anxiety itself was anything more than just a word people used when something didnt make sense. and then you think. and overthink, make excuses, get scared, hold back. Thirty years and then a person steps through your life, many conversations over many months, real love, and everything unravels. You realize that the life youve lived was wasted at your doorstep while you watched it happen, scared to step into. Fear of failing, fear of falling, fear of quitting, fear of starting, fear of faking, fear of loving, fear of lasting, fear of hurting, fear of missing, living, wanting, trying, moving, moving on, letting go, yet somehow always leaving or finding reason to do so and call it progress becasue youre the best at convincing yourself of anything that will shield you from this reality, but still you fake it and call it progress. Progress is post anything. Post is only after, and pasted to your eyelids. Post is only after youve learned to live and love yourself…Ive learned neither. Ive loved hard, I love hard, and simultaneously hated myself, Im in this story, doubted and shrouded in irrelevant opinions and shallow hymns. Here Ive hid and let live, and left myself saddened, over again. Lovely cause I loathe, alone becasue I chose. Love from only a distance, for only a time, in only the places Ive never tried.
I have a hard time with waiting. As if every single act has an ideal instance of action, and they all land on the back burner until the moment shows itself. In subsequent truth, I now own a vast shelf of ignored ideas and trials, passed their prime, missed out on, lost in their own space just to fill a corner of future conversation where I once had a thought and lost it to a whim. Each moment itself a ghost of my former face in a former time and former place, left and left forever; only for me to visit in regret and faded contemplation of glory days that never quite made it. I get so lost in my mind, the last to pull a thread, the anxious awe my name, I’ve lived in vivid waves.
What I’m finding out…
is everything I’ve pushed aside
just wasn’t meant for left behind.
And conversations find me reeling
where the pieces all face out.
I’m breatheless all my days,
and bleeding out of time.
Days like this, I come to places like this
and just to sit, just to watch.
Take a seat a seat at the strangest table
and watch the strangest lives surround.
Strange enough to love, but only as an adjective.
Strange enough to still-life in a frame that isn’t mine.
Leave a seat here open, pulled aside a bit.
A lasting invitation, and a friendliest decline.
These days all play like B-sides…an afterthought,
post-everything and undefined.
These memories are ashes
of long gone fire lies.
Where their faces fell,
I settled in the dust.
I’ve anchored in so tightly,
and days forget to trust.
It’s her and I together here,
our lines full bold abroad.
The ghosts are closing on me,
with a backlit fear of old.
These thoughts are not my own.
Sit with me where the sky and the streetlights meet.
Two lines intersect in the moment our stories speak.
Tangled fingers in our tangled space, hanging,
freely in all the times we’d wait.
Where are you now,
but tinder and smoke.
Forty floors of orange,
and the ash of the earth.
Love lost in a fire,
long beneath the crust.