If I knew you would be here soon, I would wait, even when I
know you won’t be. I watch the summer rush by the way others have, and other
will, and I push aside each day the way I might a house fly, a persistent nuisance
I would abandon if I could. I cast aside years now as if they were days, or put
them in a drawer the way the poet does mothballs, perverted for no good reason,
each drawer overflowing with details and memories I cannot resurrected, each
day, week, moth, passing as if a century, quickly and then, not at all, not
quickly enough to eradicate the thoughts I had, and wished I hoped would come
true, knowing you will not come soon or at all, but like a horsefly or
butterfly, you hover just beyond my reach.
No comments:
Post a Comment