How quickly I see myself
in terms of trails,
dirty and uneven,
pocketed with pebbles,
a path traveled once,
but never looked back on.
Unmarked and unchanged,
just an outlying connection
branching without notice
before it fades.

Oh, to be your highway,
stretching and connecting you.
I’d memorize your signs,
plan the stops, open my lanes,
sleep to the rhythm
of rush hour days,
certain we were driving somewhere:
the main artery.

Only today, I realized I was more
the unexpected detour,
sighs of an irritated traveler
seep from your galumphs
as you recycle a pity pattern,
dump your waste
behind locked doors.

Startling myself,
a shameful faint scar
of an addict,
you roll down your sleeves,
I finally see clearly:
I am not a headlight.
I barely raised pattern
on your flesh.

© 2021 | K.Hartless

A poem worth revisiting, so my apologies if you’ve read this one before. I’ve reworked some bits, and now it feels much more impactful.


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