It’s like the nights
in which you
sit and wait
and sit
and wait
and sit
and wait
accomplishing nothing
knowing nothing
of what you’re waiting for
And they pile on each other
the sitting
the waiting
until all the time spent
all the time you sat
you waited
runs out
like feeling
like a lack of feeling
Like you can’t feel anymore.
And yet you sit.
And yet you wait.
And feel nothing.
Slipping into an old poem about you
(because
let’s face it
they are all about you)
and remembering the familiar feeling
sudden warmth
stepping into hot dry summer
and feeling my skin tighten
moisture
stolen by the Sun.
So center, so overwhelming bright
as to be suffocating.
It is like living it all again.
I can smile
but under that warm feeling is
an ache.
Like age in the body
that wants for
a remembrance of youth.
It is not much that actually goes through my mind
not so much in actual thoughts, easily expressed in mere words.
(it’s born from a feeling of warmth,
like spring sunlight falling on bare skin
only radiating from within and seeping slowly outwards,
it’s a byproduct of the floaty, fluttery feeling
somewhere between the stomach and the heart
that catches at the back of your throat
like the fear that steals your breath
when you fall unexpectedly)
It’s panic.
It’s anxiety, both kinds – wishing and worry.
It’s the euphoric delight in the fact
that if you felt for me
even one iota
of what I felt for you
we could be together forever.
It is the dawning realization
that forever is a fairy tale.
all of my words were yours
and in the future, some still
will also be yours
for you have occupied one tiny walled off corner of my heart
yesterday, now, and forever
beyond your numbered days
and beyond mine
I don’t know what the future holds
All I know is that if I am there
I will be with you
Or I will be missing you
mehryment 