she is jetting off on 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 so I could anchor my life.
alas, today, why not let the winds of fate
carry away the map to her as I am no
longer seeking to follow her path,
tales of greater adventures
shall be written yet.
She knows that, I am sure. This is
not for her, or you, it’s for me and now.
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 welcoming blue.