Someday

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Someday you’ll sit down
with a cup full of years
and more than a few scratches
under the table and the words
will squirm like insects
in a different language,
the girl I knew just out of reach
and without a face.

Someday you’ll sit down
under the broken sun of anger
and question the colors
and my devotion
like a passing wind,
the spinning world outside
a testament to the falsehoods
your feet whisper and your head
hopes to hear.

Someday you’ll sit down
with pen in hand,
questioning every comma
and adjective for truth,
for comfort, for confirmation
of the theme you’ve chosen
as director for the crowd
captivated and anxious
for the curtain to rise.

Someday you’ll sit down
with a box of crayons
and find them all gray,
my words whispers on the wind
whistling through the buildings
or in the dust-covered memories
more golden than they were
but never quite as bright
as the oil-stained canvas.

Someday you’ll sit down
and I’ll sit beside you
content in the silence
and warmth of our auras,
the spinning world outside
a mere scratch in the ocean
no longer beckoning
but just as magnificent
and just as steady.

(dtn)

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