I keep imagining seeing you in two,
three,
or six months time.
We'd walk towards each other,
and my legs would stop working for a second.
Steps would become hard,
as my feet felt like they were floating.
You'd tell me if your adventures,
new friends, old friends,
old acts, new acts.
I'd want to hear all about it -
want to soak it all in -
but I wouldn't.
I'd wince at the thought of all of these new experiences,
once I had the chance to absorb them,
to take them in and hold them.
But now I can't.
As my feet stopped working, my brain would too.
It would take everything to stop myself from reaching out and touching you.
No comments:
Post a Comment