Promise me, you said,
and I hesitated,
even after
the despondency
in your eyes
lashed out at me.
But I could not say
what you wanted to hear,
and now your dejection,
and my guilt
linger in
my silence.
I try to catch meaning again,
a Sisyphean enterprise
as my attention span
is in direct relation to
my ever increasing
level of ennui.
And I do get bored easily
these days.
She says,
Why ever? Do you not see
how much excitement
this world holds?
All the things we can do…
And I so want to
burst her bubble of
naivety with a spell of
disillusionment.
An overreaction, I admit,
but sometimes her
artless views
bring out the worst in me.
Oh, the eagerness of
a young soul.
Been there, done that.
They are all caught up
in the doing
which does not
equate to being.
Do they ever ponder
the necessity for activity
at all?
© november child
photo credit: Steve Jurvetson via Flickr
What did you do
with her tears?
Did you shrug them off
with the contempt
you reserve for what
you perceive as weakness?
Did they make you
uncomfortable, when
they too clearly pointed to
the issues you are
unwilling to face?
Or did you cherish them,
every tiny drop a trophy
that you collected
as a symbol of the
power you hold over her?
© november child
photo credit: hadia lakhras via The Awesome Daily
The article about the Topography of Tears is fascinating!
I drew a map for you
of the admittedly
long, and winding road
to my heart.
I even precisely marked
all the required stops,
where, for a moment,
you could have
simply appreciated
the journey,
enjoyed the pace, and
taken inventory
of what is ahead.
Should have been easy.
november child 