7:19pm
yes, i am alone. and i know this because the wind tells me its secrets. it carries whispers of reminiscence across fields and lakes and backstreets. it grounds me in the surroundings of my city, reminds me i am ever so truly alone. i look up and note the lights from the windows. the poets have been writing musings of irony for generations, but now, instead of wiping the wonder from my soul, i wipe the tears from my eyes. the frostbite forming in remembrance solidifies the frown cast upon my face until the light from the lamppost can trace it in my shadow. i call myself a poet, but i suppose it has always come at a cost. i keep my friends close out of necessity. i write words because i cannot afford therapy. my parents call it half-assing, they say i am not trying at all. but how am i not trying when all i can do at the end of the week is breathe myself into the city surrounding. how am i not trying when all i can do is mutter the words of my poems in an effort to remind myself of who i once was. i feel like i am going forwards and backwards. i am where i am supposed to be but part of me wishes that i wasn’t. part of me wishes i was someone who could see wind for wind and musings for musings. the air is nipping at my eyes begging for more. i suppose it is time to head home.
