There are times,
like in the early morning hours
as the sun leisurely
announces its arrival into day,
or like the moments just before
sleep encapsulates me in
warm oblivion,
times in which I long for
those earlier days
when I was yearning, reaching, striving
living in the newness of my surroundings,
entirely focused on the present,
living for the highs,
dying for the momentary, fleeting
notions that I was invincible,
that I was someone special,
that I could live inside
such glory forever more,
clinging to the perfection of those days,
and the fear that it would all end.
And it has ended,
like all things seems designed to do.
Now we are dispersed all across
this vast country, creating new lives
in lieu of the life we once shared.
There are times,
like during long walks alone
past storefronts and restaurant windows
where friends sit sharing a meal,
or lovers embrace
over a drink or two,
or when I look at the pictures that he kept,
knowing that he likes to
return to those days
just like I do.
There are times,
like the middle of the day,
when it dawns on me
that half the day is gone,
that all my youth is gone,
and that all the same fears are still here.
But what to do?
Moments fade into memories,
and memories slip away in foreign
recesses of the lonely mind.
Hopes fade into realities,
and realities come to define our now.
After everything --
the heat I felt while dancing salsa
in the bar in Chiapas,
the fluttering of my heart as his hand slid down
the space between my stomach
and my dress.
The promises she made to me
that we would buy a ticket
and move to Australia
just so we could say we lived in Australia.
The sad boy I befriended
and sat with at lunch everyday,
and my inability to fall in love with him
despite his desire for me.
The trip to China when I decided
that I would never take for granted
my freedom.
The first time he played me a Radiohead song
and told me that I was beautiful.
The first time I noticed
the golden yellows and burnt oranges
of the glorious fall foliage
on my way to English Literature class,
the long, vacant minutes
after reading the painfully
impersonal rejection letter --
yet, after everything,
I am here.
And I will be here,
while they will be there.
And the memories will continue burning holes
in my carefully crafted guise.
like in the early morning hours
as the sun leisurely
announces its arrival into day,
or like the moments just before
sleep encapsulates me in
warm oblivion,
times in which I long for
those earlier days
when I was yearning, reaching, striving
living in the newness of my surroundings,
entirely focused on the present,
living for the highs,
dying for the momentary, fleeting
notions that I was invincible,
that I was someone special,
that I could live inside
such glory forever more,
clinging to the perfection of those days,
and the fear that it would all end.
And it has ended,
like all things seems designed to do.
Now we are dispersed all across
this vast country, creating new lives
in lieu of the life we once shared.
There are times,
like during long walks alone
past storefronts and restaurant windows
where friends sit sharing a meal,
or lovers embrace
over a drink or two,
or when I look at the pictures that he kept,
knowing that he likes to
return to those days
just like I do.
There are times,
like the middle of the day,
when it dawns on me
that half the day is gone,
that all my youth is gone,
and that all the same fears are still here.
But what to do?
Moments fade into memories,
and memories slip away in foreign
recesses of the lonely mind.
Hopes fade into realities,
and realities come to define our now.
After everything --
the heat I felt while dancing salsa
in the bar in Chiapas,
the fluttering of my heart as his hand slid down
the space between my stomach
and my dress.
The promises she made to me
that we would buy a ticket
and move to Australia
just so we could say we lived in Australia.
The sad boy I befriended
and sat with at lunch everyday,
and my inability to fall in love with him
despite his desire for me.
The trip to China when I decided
that I would never take for granted
my freedom.
The first time he played me a Radiohead song
and told me that I was beautiful.
The first time I noticed
the golden yellows and burnt oranges
of the glorious fall foliage
on my way to English Literature class,
the long, vacant minutes
after reading the painfully
impersonal rejection letter --
yet, after everything,
I am here.
And I will be here,
while they will be there.
And the memories will continue burning holes
in my carefully crafted guise.