porch

thinking of you makes me hate everything I write now

every word I say feels like a past ghost, haunting each syllable

maybe I’m too emotional, feeling the most unconnected from you

yet still attached all the same from your departure

each night feels the same, waiting for you at the door,

only for you to not come home

scared that I’ve left your mind so soon, unable to be picked up

questioned until I fall asleep, alone, but using my own voice

here I am, staring at the sunset with nothing but a guitar stuck in my mind

a colorless sunrise, pale and with only so many shades of white

different from the dynamo and viola I was expecting when I woke up

I don’t know, maybe it’s just another winter in the sky.

but I’m still waiting. as I always will be.

not out of foolishness or to fill self-expectations, but for the world to bring its own

the type of surprises that you brought to my life when I held you

and I hope this is one could calm all my fears.

but then again, that’s just hope talking.