He Goes
he collects unlived moments
in clear jars
with tight lids and no labels
he has baggage he will never unpack
on the floor of every closet
dark and silent like moss
He waits for the neighbor
to bring him leftovers - She cooks
like the mother he never had
and the wife he'll never want
he wonders why
the nights bleed to day
and this year has bled him dry
his goal is distant, dim and bitter
but the here is pain and the now regret
and the past is notwithstanding
he wishes he could hope
while he hoped to have wishes
but he feels no gray between the black and white
in each movement forward
there is backward motion
and progress is measured by the love avoided
he looks everywhere but does not see
what he cannot stop from breathing in
“that” which fills his lungs and soul
he longs for something he can not tolerate
desires something that burns him from the inside
tries to hold the very thing his heart rejects
as each unmarked memory and every unfelt touch
haunts him like unpaid bills
he moves through the muck in weighted hip high self-righteousness
he goes because he cannot stop
he breaths because he cannot cry
and he accepts that he cannot feel
Copyright © Erin Hughes | Year Posted 2005
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