you traced a map on my tongue
and told me
it would never be too late
to find my way back home.
we were always lost,
running toward
or past something,
never taking the opportunity
to be.
i wanted to stay.
i wanted to tell you, but
i couldn't lie
so i sat in the shadows
by your doorstep
and counted to 3,
ran to the wind
and haven't looked back since.
your windows
were always open, even
in the dead of winter
when my shivering carpals
were dialing my mother to
send me some sun and orange juice.
you were never good at heat..
you couldn't sleep
without at least one arm
being cold and lonely
there were five million issues i had with this.
one.
was that it was always the arm near me
two.
was that for some reason
that meant mine had to share the
same symptoms of solitude.
my hands were always quivering
in response to your back always turning.
i don't reach solutions
easily.
i teeter between stay
and go and hope
for someone to reach in and decide.
for two months,
i knew that we were
changing our ending.
i knew that the 'happy'should probably be
omitted and replaced
with something more fitting.
© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved.
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