Tuesday, April 28, 2015

old paths and older boots

The tread of my boots is peeling off,
I feel the slap, slap, slap of rubber on pavement,
as I trudge through the April rains.

The words are so familiar,
resonant with past sounds.
I had forgotten all about this:
rituals of questions and answers,
exchanges of smiles and hints,
and hidden meanings in smooth words.

Exhilaration has subsided into
Little trills of titilation dissolving into
comedic mishaps,
missed signals,
and tragic miscommunication.

Something grabs at my heart:
something choking me.
A thought--I was going to be you.
I would have,
at one point,
been you--

I experience something sickening,
waves of envy, tossing my heart about
like a helpless boat caught in monsoon storms.
The air is laced with dissatisfaction,
Perhaps something more.
A sacrifice.
But not a glamorous sacrifice--
a daily task that is
worthy and mundane
and certainly not fit for Instagram.

Peace has flown out the window,
perhaps seeking more
aesthetically pleasing stomping-grounds.
So we wait.
we wait,
for the familiar flood of Joy to return.
Perhaps it will,
with each step, it approaches--
with the slap, slap of my peeling sole
in the April rain.

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