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Tag, I'm It
Decibels crash into casual speaking,
I participate in eavesdropping and self-loathing.
My heart and mind argue, decipher the words,
Wonder when, if ever, they’ll pertain to or acknowledge me.
No one ever told me it was so exhausting to be alone, searching for signs
That who I desire might want my attention, finding that
She’s perfect without me.
Like a pen dried up, straight from its package,
It lies impotent on the desk.
I can’t toss it because it’s still new, right?
I pick it up and scribble,
The blank page stares and laughs. I feel bad for the pen,
Alone and waiting, only to see other pens in use.
Just as a doe perks up at a twig’s crunch,
Under a potential mate’s hoof,
But, it’s only winter claiming her dead.
She’s too late.
Other does have already found their stags and started their herds.
Maybe next year she’ll look harder
Earlier in autumn. Or maybe, she won’t make it through July,
When those snapping twigs trigger
A whistle, a thud, and silence.
My desire for shared laughter and inside jokes
Quickly fades when I won’t experience them.
My quiet voice barely infiltrates
An already-formed group of friends. And when it trickles through,
It’s suddenly pushed back out to focus on some drama I don’t know about.
In a game of tag, I’m “it,” a slug, and everyone else is a marathon runner.
Maybe I’ll wait until the next game,
When all players are the same. But, by then,
I’ll already be crushed under the foot of someone faster.