Not closer and no sooner.
Sitting on the curbside of expectation,
glancing back at brick-and-mortar dreams;
all of the stillborn schemes we could never recover.
No better and worse off,
parading out exhausted, familiar jokes,
seeing fate in future dates several steps behind,
where thirtysomething is where life proceeds to halt.
Resting to laugh it away,
twiddling thumbs to whittle down seconds,
waiting for resurrection to roll in.
“Any moment then, any moment now,” so she says,
arms crossed over her chest as if dressed to mourn.
No lower and steady in shock,
losing track of the tiny little mistakes
our mutual avoidance allows to plant within,
until a photograph of affection is a field of dandelions.
Not ahead and not moving,
gilding ignored caution with glory,
professing truth in the art of a modern decay story;
the only value viewed in life from piling hospital receipts.
Caressed to hide it away,
running hands past to thaw stalled blood,
hoping resurrection is rolling in.
“If nothing else, then nothing else,” so she says,
praying to our cynicism that they’ll lay a tree for us.
Glory through dirt then,
when all has gone and been through with,
and dandelions parachute heavenwards out of spring,
scouring the geometry of clouds for an edge.
If they never come down, perhaps there’s a home.
If you and I never come down, perhaps it’s amazing.
Purpose in falling leaves then,
when what needs to be said beyond this
resides in what will never be read by any passing,
but it can never be said it wasn’t there.
It can always be said we were there.
Fell mute to scare it away,
inelegant lips skirting a quiet drama,
staking all on resurrection rolling in.
“When emptied out, then emptied we go,” so we say,
adrift in a cemetery for weeds.
~
( ❤ Mitch)
The Works of Mitch Worden 