STILL

 STILL

THERE ARE TRUTHS WE CARRY,

A HANDFUL OF CERTAINTIES,

WHISPERED BY INSTINCT YET BRUSHED ASIDE—

KNOWLEDGE WE BURY BENEATH THE RUSH,

THE THRILL OF LEAPING INTO THE UNKNOWN.

RISK DANCES AHEAD OF REASON,

OUTPACING THE SHADOWS OF WHAT MIGHT BREAK,

AND WE, WITH HEARTS POUNDING,

CHASE IT THROUGH TANGLED BUSHES,

OVER RUSTED FENCES,

LAUGHING AS SIRENS WAIL IN THE DISTANCE.

THOSE SEPTEMBER NIGHTS SPILLED INTO HOURS,

LATE AND LANGUid,

OUR LIPS LOCKED IN A REBEL’S PACT,

STRETCHED ACROSS YOUR WORN ‘70S COUCH—

A RELIC OF TIME—

UNTIL THE FIRST SLANT OF SUNRISE

PAINTED US GOLD AND GONE.  

IT BEGAN WITH A SPARK,

A KISS PLOTTED LIKE A HEIST,

STAGED IN THE HALF-LIGHT BEHIND MY BUILDING.

THE WORLD’S HUM FADED TO STATIC,

VOICES DROWNED BY THE PULL OF US—

OUR SILHOUETTES MELTING INTO ONE,

A FLEETING UNION CAST AGAINST CONCRETE.

EVEN THEN, I SAW THE HORIZON,

THE END LURKING LIKE A PATIENT GHOST,

HOVERING NEAR THE DUMPSTER’S EDGE,

WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE FALL—

THE OTHER SHOE, HEAVY WITH FINALITY.

YET WE PRESSED ON,

IGNORING THE TICK OF FATE’S CLOCK,

SAVORING THE STOLEN SECONDS.  

THE EGO, STUBBORN AND BRUISED,

TOOK ITS BEATING IN SILENCE,

WHIPPED BY GOODBYES IT DIDN’T DESERVE,

THOUGH IT FOUGHT TO STAND TALL.

WHEN THE END CAME,

IT WASN’T LOUD OR GRAND—

JUST A QUIET UNRAVELING,

A THREAD PULLED TOO FAR.

AND YET, I WONDER NOW,

IF A SIP OF THAT WILDNESS,

A FRAGMENT OF MONTHS OR HOURS BORROWED,

IS WORTH MORE THAN AN UNTASTED LIFE—

A STORY LEFT BLANK,

A QUESTION UNASKED.  

BETTER, PERHAPS, TO HOLD THE MEMORY,

TO CRADLE THE ECHO OF WHAT WAS,

THAN TO WANDER FOREVER THROUGH THE FOG

OF WHY’S LEFT UNANSWERED,

OF PATHS UNTRAVELED,

OF WHAT-MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS

DISSOLVING LIKE MIST AT DAWN.

SOME THINGS, PLENTY OF THINGS,

WE KNOW AND IGNORE—

BUT THIS, THIS TASTE OF YOU,

I CHOSE TO FEEL,

AND THAT CHOICE LINGERS STILL.