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Somewhere in time, a seventeen year old version of myself lays on his back and stares at the stars. Somewhere in time, a twenty six year old version of myself dances with a woman, slowly, their bodies close, his face by the side of her face. I still remember the look of the shining fuzz on her cheeks and the feel of my breath bouncing back from her cheek. Some days, I curse the year that her mental illness arose. Some days, I reluctantly envy widowers who at least lost their loves while their loves still loved them, and don't have to deal with a partial loss. Does she still love me? Does she still exist in there? Sometimes I still wake up confused, wondering what is wrong, and then I remember that the problem is that I am not with you that I am not there to care for you and that I don't know if you are okay. |
Copyright ©2021 Ashi Shadow - 12/15/21 - An amalgamation of true stories.
There is so little time that we are alive.
How can I spend it not taking care of you?.
There is an implied missing line before the last line of "You sent me away".
Perhaps I did not repeat it since that line appears in another similar poem.
In one way, don't like this poem, because although it starts happy, I allow the bright tint to fade.
But I do like the brightness and the loyalty. Perhaps the last stanza should be made "she" for consistency.