occasionally, i find myself
entirely separated from
the rush of living, the blush
of being alive. i find myself
in a daze, a hazy day of
detachment, not knowing
what i should say.
i'm not quite sad, or afraid:
instead i spend the time
wondering where am i
and what is my place
in this vast expanse of
earth upon which i exist.
a reflection, a thought,
of all the time i bought
for myself, to keep going
to the next day. a strange
space between me and
everything else, one i
cannot cross, can't see.
but it's okay, for everyday
we wake up, and sometimes
the cloud descends and
all the things you adore
are naught but a bore,
a distraction from
reflection. i'll wake up
tomorrow, see the light
on the windowpane,
and surely, certainly,
i'll find myself again.
YOU ARE READING
the colour of mirrors
Poetrybecause there's only ever a moment, in between the waiting and the ones who are waited for.
