she is jetting off to another adventure,
all those escapades across the waters,
while I sit at home, piecing together
snippets of her life, play them like a
pirated movie, drowning slowly in a
second-hand experience of her.
forget wild parties or listening to
the unfamiliar beats of foreign hearts,
she has done it all. that girl bleeds
art and probably drinks it too, I wonder
if my life could be like hers if I liked
grapes less than I did wine?
don’t lie to yourself, sober fool,
it was never about you. even this,
I almost gave to her, happy to be
a little parrot, rolling scraps of her
sunshine across the tongue because
I thought I could never light my own darkness,
bright plumage hiding a tepid fear of existence,
latching onto her in order to anchor my life.
alas, today, why not let the winds of fate
carry away the map to her as I am no
longer seeking her out, tales of greater
treasures shall be written yet.
She knows that, I am sure. This is
not for her, or you, it’s for me and now.
For there is enough ocean for all of us
to find what we are looking for,
if we have enough spirit to go searching,
traversing separately but never alone towards
the horizon, through our own shades of blue.