It is not the swallow that dives and sweeps with the wind,
It is not the pencil still sharp on one end, but useless with its worn eraser hat.
It’s not the wash gone pink with the red napkin, tossed with the whites.
It’s not the $40 off coupon, cashed in a day too late.
It’s the words unspoken, now expired.
You left them pressed and neat inside your coat,
Waiting for the perfect moment.
Afraid to use them for me.
Waiting for the next best thing.
It’s not the flowers wilted after only a day.
It’s not the wine gone sour,
It’s not the thoughts that wonder
down the halls of a memory.
It’s the fear so tightly locked away,
under the unconscious lock and key.
It’s the choices, too many
That confuse and amuse you.
As you finger through the entries, imagining each one
An outfit so unique.
You’ve missed the couture vest
waiting to hug you.
Its red- silk lining, stroking your skin,
discarded upon your shiny, waxed floor.
Looking for the unforgotten, lost in the storm of
dreams and ideals,
You twirl in the mirror of yesteryear,
pretending it’s today.
I wait on the sidelines,
I wait for the swallow to fly
for the pencil to erase all the messy feelings.
I wait for the pinks to be brilliant white.
Whose fooling me?
Written for the fun of it. April 2, 2013
Tuesday 8:35 PM