i could have been anything, a bush or the ashtray, your vice
i would be just the earth beneath you and the trees around you to see you sip a glass of water, or one of the green lampposts around the city to witness you smiling in your own thoughts, or the curtains drawn over your window to watch you cry a bit
i’m not pushing myself in any direction right now, it’s more a process of coming to the center, or the end of a boring conversation with myself in order to move forward, or up or whichever direction
it’s an obstacle course and i keep tripping on the same roses you gave me,
a big issue is i’m only having this conversation with myself,
and i’m afraid i won’t be able to remember--there were so many moments ((and i return to the same places to retrieve that feeling... but i realize i’m the only one there, and it’s always nighttime--when i see the moon i think of you))
or ever get there--that feeling, ((you watching me from the bed smiling, allowing me to be, and you the glove so comfortably surrounding the scene zooming out maybe forever))
i may never, i may as well just end it, i know for a moment that the feeling is inside me, that i created it, it’s no memory, it will come circular to its return,
but i’m worried that it just happened, that it was the synchronicity or the push-and-pull, and i’m not sure if that exists everywhere, and there’s no time machine,
i’m not sure how you feel about me in reality, i know that the outer shell is a shell of fear and there’s something soft inside, nothing so venomous,
if we’re being honest i would hope that you know i do care so much about you and if it’s any consolation...
i wasn’t always grateful, and i am now
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