My brain has been itching
for another poem,
yet nothing has flowed
as easily as the others.
It feels like a fog has settled,
greying the landscape of
what was and what will be.
I can’t see but three feet forward.
I wish I could explain the
tightness in my chest,
the catch in my breath
when I think your name,
the smile that persists
when I look back at us.
It’s all confusing
and sad and lonely
and tiring. (I am so tired.)
Yet, there’s joy, somewhere.
She’s elusive,
slinking around in the haze,
donned in white satin.
I wish to take her hand,
to learn the movements
of her feet.
But the fog, blanketing my heart,
brings a form of warmth
I’m learning to sleep with.
Someday, I will dance
in a field of yellow flowers,
but today, I stay shrouded
in mist.
So It Goes 