I stepped outside for the first time this week.
I guess I’m anxious that I’ll seem too weak.
Bracing for questions; asking how I am.
Truthfully I’m just dead beneath my skin.
But I’ll bow my head, say I’m better now.
It’s just a white lie that I’m living in.
I arrive to my work and drop a tear. . .
I utter your name but no. . . you’re not here. . .
The catch with daydreams is you can’t wake up.
Minutes pass like hours. . . refill my cup.
I’m walking home. . . I drop another tear.
I whisper your name. . . but no. . . you’re not here.
I like to fall and gaze at the ceiling.
With all this pain, it’s fine to feel nothing.
I’m lost in woe, and the world keeps spinning.
So nothing can break the way I’m feeling.
I sit by myself and finish my tear.
You whisper my name, but no, I’m not here. . .
© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.