I live my life through the words I write
I opened an old notebook
at random
from the stack beside my bed
on the bookshelf.
A notebook of poetry
from three years ago.
The page I turned to
contained words of
feelings
memories
metaphors
and people.
I offered to the page
a wistful smile
for just yesterday
I wrote about the same
feelings
memories
metaphors
and people.
And I thought to myself:
I need to let them go.
Try on different words
to describe the feelings you feel
like a shirt or pair of pants
in a department store.
Try a new color, or fabric,
something beyond your norm
and watch how you transform.
What would you have said to them
if, the last time you saw them,
you had known
it would be the last time?
Empty beer bottles line the windowsill,
collecting dust down through their necks
to mix in with the last few drops of alcohol
not consumed,
nor rinsed out and down the sink.
Lined up in a row
they tell a story of the evenings past
filling our stomachs with barley and malt
until they reached our minds
and made us feel better.
Some are yours, some are mine,
but we drank them together
talking, smiling and laughing,
liking each other.
For me, at least.
How many beers will it take
for us to tell each other
how we really feel?
Will I feel those same feelings
I felt the last time
if I were to see you again?
If I will,
does that mean
I should never see you again?
Too anxious to sit still
but too tired to move around
so I am here, stuck,
vibrating through my stationary body
with energy strong enough
to boil a pot of water.
Dreaming of the impossible
the never-happened, never-will-happen.
Dreaming of a past which does not belong to me
and may not belong to anyone.
The sights, sounds, conversations, feelings,
they are too real
to be imaginary.
They must be real.
I want them to be real.
Dawning Words 