One more fiber of the rope
tethering us together has been cut.
Now it has been severed to the point
that either one of us may completely
drift away at any given time.
I would reach for your hand to keep me afloat,
but sadly it has not been present for quite some time.
Yet maybe instead of drowning in these desolate depths without you I will finally learn to fly.
Why should I continue counting on you and your cold constraints when I no longer care to be grounded?
Tag: Poetry
Collided
We didn't touch, we collided.
Without hesitation our bodies
melded and merged into one.
Leaving us unable to separate
and unwilling to try.
The Geese
Today I caught sight of the geese
flying in a v-formation flock above my head.
I had forgotten how they do that.
How they have learned to fly together in such a perfectly, imperfect point of direction.
In such a linear, similar way.
I felt sadness at first and caught myself grimacing.
The last time I'd witnessed their well-structured flight it had been nearing winter.
But then I reminded myself that they were simply returning for spring.
So I remembered to smile.
Front Door
Your childhood home has new owners,
but the front door is still the same.
I wonder if they like the way the lock sounds
as it clicks into place like you did.
Or if they've become curious about why the left bottom panel's paint is peeled in such a peculiar place.
Maybe they'll replace it this summer
when the weather is nicer.
Or maybe I should compliment
their door so they don't.
Hatred
Hatred feeds on fear and fractured crowds as it crowns the loudest liar king.
Inward thoughts become outward words,
small stances of oppression shift into violence, and power-hungry predators spew repugnant propaganda.
Repulsive rhetoric convinces the world's worst to sharpen their weapons and raise them against their neighbors.
As if they were animals...
As if they were inhuman.
Hatred is an otherworldly beast.
Absent
Over the years I became the definition of detached.
I became the shell of a person that wanted to look as interesting as the amount of numbness she felt for everything around her.
I spent too many of my days alive while not truly living and I wasted more of my time behind a facade than a picturesque home with no walls.
So I was never truly present within the moments you now refer to as memories.
If I was there with you, sadly all you memorized was my absence.
Prayer
I still remember The Lord's Prayer, but I don't believe in God.
The words are imprinted into some strange, sunken shrine within my skull.
Forged into bone at age nine by naivety, parental notions, and nightly repetitions.
Each line in the dutiful prayer as meaningless as the instructions for a machine that never worked.
Yet they still rise up from the recesses of my mind like a reflex. Like a cough or a sneeze from a body that once bowed without questioning why.
Maybe it's because the cadence of it still surprisingly soothes, even though its content no longer convinces.
Scenarios
I have tried to imagine all of the moments that I could bump into you.
As if I could compel corny, casual encounters that are made explicitly for the cinema into existence.
Maybe it's during a late night trip for cereal at the grocery store, an early morning stop at the gas station, or a mid-afternoon pill pick up at the pharmacy.
Maybe we reach for the same box, we arrive at the same time, or we stumble into the same softly lit aisle.
But maybe within each scenario something inevitably goes wrong.
All the shelves in the cereal aisle are completely empty, every fuel pump is forlornly flagged as out of service, and somehow I completely forgot to refill my prescription.
I have tried to imagine all of the moments that I could bump into you, but it just never works.
How could my mind ever create a place that will never exist for a person who is no longer there.
Consciousness
I dread those brief seconds of unawareness and uncertainty upon waking up.
My eyelids barely open and my brain immediately panics as it begins to recalibrate itself with a barrage of questions.
What time is it? What day is it?
Am I supposed to be somewhere today? Did I miss something?
I recollect my surroundings, orientating myself back to reality as the window shades shift shadows across my room's smooth walls.
My consciousness resumes.
My body relaxes.
It's noon on a Thursday.
I have no where to be and I have missed nothing.
Unremarkable
In reality, too many people are simply a disappointment.
They live without passion.
Waking up each day solely to fulfill the mindless routines and mundane expectations that society prompts them to accomplish.
They simply exist to exist as they strive to subsist and survive.
Appeasing a world built purely around predictability, profit, and political propaganda.
How can people be at peace with knowing that their life will end as unremarkably as the day they were born?
Perhaps because mediocrity offers comfort.
Perhaps for many it is easier to die unremarkably than to risk the consequences of ever truly living.
AO Poetry 
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