“Treat people like you will never see them again.”
I have a knack of always beating the rush to a line, but I never really checked to see if I was actually just holding up the line and making it longer.
…Nah. That’s impossible.
Why do people ask “Where do you imagine yourself three years from now?” Anyone can dream. Isn’t the more important question, “Three years ago, did you imagine yourself being here?”
It’s been a while since I’ve rhymed.
I don’t know why, or what has sparked,
this need to can a moment’s time
and regimented meter in
a note-to-self; a bottle marked
“return to sender,” floated down
a river where the days begin
and end within the boundaries of
a winding predetermined path,
where by the night my note will drown,
an afterthought, a wing-clipped dove
consumed beneath the aftermath
of ebb and flow—of tides that stole
away with all my self-control.