Saskelover1234

I look for you in crowded streets. When I'm driving, I watch for your familiar car. I think of you warmed in winter coats, around twinkling Christmas lights and huddled within the glow of fireplaces. I think of you, your hands clasping mine in the icy nights or early morning. I think of candle lit dinners and laugher. I think of weekend trips to water ways, hiking paths and climbed fences. I think of you more now, now that we are strangers. My imagination runs wild, screeching through the night with images of what could have been. I wonder of the moments I may see you out in the world. Shopping or running errands. Eating out or drink

I hide and I wait. When the moment comes, I hesitate. A culmination of everything, and I hesitate. I make up stories in my head. Count the times they backfire. Fire crackers. I imagine warmth, light, picture-perfect, sugar-coated, dreamy and worthy of dreams. The world does not deliver. My expectations take one for the team. That is why they aren't allowed to play the game. That is why they always win. Sacrifice. The losing corner is where I make my bed. I console myself with whispers, dainty things with no spine. No truth, but no lies. Neutral. White noise. Blank space. Fog descends, defending my honor. In the fog, there is onl

Time's are changing, and I'm trying to keep up. Quick movements, Short days. The words don't flow like they used to. A sonnet I once spun is a foreign song to my mind now. I used to weave glorious tales of pain, abstract epics of broken thoughts and lost memories. Pain was my ink, my pen, my crumpled note pad. I relished and reveled in it. Pain, haze, hurt, hatred. The four horsemen of creation. Replaced with bureaucracy. Replaced and forgotten. Gone in a puff of smoke. Writers love the drink, and the drink loves me. Writers love the moon, and the night loves me. Writers love the word, but the word has left me. The possession

Out in this night pavement under my feet, breath in the air. I feel a presence tonight, whisper in my ear. Cold nips at my ankles, shoes tied tight. I tread the ground, under moonlight, searching. I fight nostalgia back. I know these streets, this air. I've been here before. Fighting back a feeling, cold ankles, feet sore. I've smelled this city smoke, seen these dim, twinkling lights. I've walked along this street. Somewhere in this city, in some lost room I haven't found, the real me is there. Hiding from the light my flashlight brings. Hushed to only whispers, Lost in familiar places. Sadly, each time I tread this pa

The pitter-patter of rain, distant wind whistling, dripping water. The smell of fresh brewed coffee. This day encloses me in nostalgia. Reminding me of simpler times. I crave the high view of the mountains, the crisp air, clouds flying low to the earth. The crunch of leaves beneath my boots. Distant calls of birds, the sounds of nature. I crave the rushing brook, the setting sun. One day I will break beyond this boring life. Perhaps improve upon it? I need time to regain myself. For I am lost.

I am not afraid of death in the way you might think. I'm not scared of my world ending, nor am I afraid of the ground. I do not fear nothingness, silence, emptiness, peace. The only thing I fear, when my end comes knocking, is the pain left behind once I am gone. I fear the memories of nostalgia held by my family, friends, children. I fear my last moment, that I should waste it. Most of all, I fear those who I must bid goodbye to before others bid goodbye to me.