I want to run
until wildflowers meet the horizon,
a mere silhouette, shaking hands,
terrified of starting over
out where gypsies roam,
singing a song to no one
until my senses rise again,
until I am no longer numb,
petals outstretched,
until alone isn’t such a sad sound
after all.
Leave me to stand still
in a city of millions,
at an intersection,
watching lights change,
cars passing by, sun-soaked towers
become an aisle of neon lights
and blinding billboards.
Where the people are too busy
to acknowledge a soul of wanderlust
dusted in star light and wonder.
Lost isn’t always an empty heart.
I want to run.
Yet I fear the suitcase hitting
the worn carpet of a vacant room,
laying awake with passing headlights
on the highway, chasing skyways.
I keep trying to find a scene
not reminiscent of you and me
but even in hollow moon beams
there you are.
Broken isn’t a noise
the heart always makes.
Sometimes I find the pieces
at the bottom of my coffee cup,
another Monday morning in
this mundane routine.
A kaleidoscope glass of rum,
at 2 AM for whiskey was
the heartbreak before you.
To say I’m unafraid to spend
the weekend home alone
is a lie.
I stand out on the edge
of this prairie town in December.
I stare down the highway,
questioning what is it that’s
out there for me?
For I don’t think the life I want
is ever going to find me here.
Yet fleeing down that white line
has never solved a damn thing.
So, I stand still.
But I want to run.
