I Am The White Rabbit

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

 

I need to write

fast

before these words

escape my keystrokes,

before my life

catches up to me.

I see it lurking in

the periphery,

waiting to pounce

back into the

forefront.

I must get these words

onto the page,

or screen,

or whatever,

but I must get them

out before these

feelings of longing

and lonely

and confusing

and sorrow

disappear back down

my fingers,

slither up my arms

and back inside

my heart,

brain,

wherever infernal

place they spawned.

But life,

reality,

people,

needs,

society,

obligations,

worries

all step into the path

of these words

becoming great,

these lines

becoming legendary,

or at least literary.

My fingers can’t type

as quickly as the words

pour,

slide,

rage

out of my mind.

But I need to say

how much I’ve lost

since I lost

you and your

quirky smile

and your rough hands

and your quick laugh.

I want you to know

that this woman

is not the same woman,

not the same,

but just as good,

perhaps a bit better

than the one who waved

to you from that greyhound

streaking across the

Florida interstate.

But I don’t have the moments

to wish you were here,

to wish I was there,

to wonder if you wish it too.

To think that you might

be stuffing your love

back inside the glass

bottle of your heart,

hoping to fill the hollowness

with her.

I don’t have the moments

to wish you happiness.

I only have the time

to squeeze out a few

lines of longing

so that my fingers

can stop bleeding

from holding back

their want of you.