Sep 02

Faded Wanderer

I told myself I wanted to be
an old memory,
forgotten and worn in nature.
I wanted to be a shapeless thought,
a face in old photos
that was familiar and warm,
but a foreign body nonetheless.
I told myself to become a dream,
a face that came and went at will
so, in the end,
my goodbyes and tears
would be quicker
and wear away sooner.

I wanted the wounds to close quickly,
to leave faint scars
like old thorny bushes
biting at children's legs.
I wanted it superficial
but real
and present enough
to raise questions as to when
and as to how.

I told myself to accept the world
and how it would continue along without me,
because I wasn't here for the attention
and I wasn't here for the recognition.
I hated the spotlight
and the praise
and the words.
I begged everyone's worlds to carry on
with or without me.
And they did.

People are living beautifully without me,
smiles still come to their faces,
and I know they haven't forgotten,
but I don't come to immediate thought.
I linger
and watch from the shadows,
and let pats on the shoulders gently make contact
and I whisper every time
"I love you".

Thank the god I don't believe in,
the god who never responded before,
that everyone is living without me.