Fragmented muses dance in
stolen silence, hindering an inability
to conquer myself's fear.
humbled is too strong a word,
and yet, here i am,
waiting for time to go on -- to continue;
to take me by the hand,
to listen to what i do not say out loud.
as children we cried when appropriate,
now, we tear up in empty theatre halls, film playing steadily, and yet i'm unawares
of anyone anything,
unaware to the couple sitting next to me at the bar, fighting
giving up on each other
too afraid to look into the other's eye,
because they'll see what was once good, and what still might be could be and very well is, and instead look around, at all the "possibilities"
thinking that happiness might exist in another lousy drink, over dimly lit candles, with someone they havenot yet met.
Or, what's worse, they think that their misery is more worthy of a story;
they think fourty years into nothing,
imagining themselves imagining running into someone they once loved, leaving thinking,
& "if only"
fuck this and fuck that.
i tremble -- the world is collapsing at its edges and its core,
everyone i love comes to mind;
you, enter stage left,
and i freeze,
please be well.