03.26.02

Truth(s)

Truth(s)
Me? I used to want things. To be someone
that walks with purpose. Thirty-four and bloated with what ifs, what
mights, whatevers each time I look into your eyes.

We never really tried. You with
your dreams, me with mine.Pretending we couldn't see
that look or feel the space hoping things would fix themselves.

And I'm sorry, because I could do somethings different--
put lettuce in your sandwishes, warn you about dog shit on the sidewalk
or rewind the movie when it's over.

It's like grabbing at a handful of water, holding onto a moment.
Like walking outside, face exposed at thirty below, northerly wind stinging your
chin and cheeks as water gathers in your eyes.

Or maybe it's that second before a person falls asleep,
when there's no need to pretend, nothing to hide --
that feeling when nothing matters and the world can look after itself.

Or maybe truth is none of these. Perhaps it's the browning lettuce
at the back of the refridgerator, or a footprint in dog shit.
Or the day we finally admit it's over.