about a park and a rainy day but not a park on a rainy day.

wait in the same place. you are late.
there is something strangly comforting
about all of this. its like you said:
its like last summer only we know eachother
better. still waiting, breath like boones farm;
breathe.

surrounded by friends and family and lovers
but none are my own. still waiting,
does it feel like home?

a hundred hands and a hundred hearts
march to sunday evening. i sit.
i pick what i hear, what i see because
these eyes are my own.

grounded in reality,
scribbled words become overwrought
confessionals turning lives into the movies
real life could never be.

you see life as you choose,
as do i, and really is there
any room to be us?

sometimes right is right.
other times it just feels that way,
the same as night to day.
the half heart half drunk luck
of what was.

remember when what we didnt know but wondered
kept us together?

at some point what is and what was
met head on and slowly became now,
and i wouldnt have it any other way.