I’m all about the old times,
the we were wild and free uncontrolled times,
the black and white yet somehow gold times,
the unfraid to be so bold times
the favourable forks in the road times,
the if roads have forks, are those splits considered tines times…
Which honestly feels like an entirely different poem.
Back on track times,
up and down times
and left without a dime times
And this near constant loop playing in my head,
reminding me that they’re changing.
Last night I read a thing that I’d written nearly 8 years ago,
where I really thought I’d be somewhere in particular a couple of years from now
And it was always somewhere different
that I thought I’d be.
Regardless of the fact that I simultaneously
Wanted to be perfectly content.
These days content feels like quiet.
It feels like stillness.
It sounds like a soft laugh
that only shows up when I surprise him.
And the best part is
I think he’s laughing
not at me,
but at the fact that he can still be surprised.