Standing on the edge of this fence,
I wonder if you are drunk or dead,
Or maybe you remember the time
When we were eight and the moving
Van still too far for grief,
You brought your boomerang, orange
And striped, and we cried when it
Flew imperfect, past railing to sky,
To clump of hedge there below.
But we were eight, I went away
Not knowing how far I’d go or
Having forgotten your name,
Too long absent to be missed and
Too few memories to reminisce
Except this: the one where things
Don’t come back having gone
And changed, while all the while
The intent remained.
Comments (5)
do you ever feel that we look back on our lives as though we have lived most of it? i like how this flings reader back to age 8. but it also reminds me how old youth can feel, and in a way, how naive it is for all it meant.
hmm, it is always a little strange, nostalgia or revisiting the past. i don’t always recognize myself.
in other news, i woke up today in complete fear of the future. like. i am really scared.
this poem sounds weird. there’s like… no imagery. too lazy to nix it.
yeah, the future. it’s frightening. there are comforting things about here and now, if we don’t spend too much time in the past or future. i dunno. i have no wisdom to offer. just doing what i can. feel better. i’m GLAD you are writing
you are wise =) it feels good to write. trying to push through the block, had to resort to throwing words in the air.