The Fortune of a Poet

Giving someone space shouldn’t be the same as giving up on them.

I’ve been searching for pieces of you that were lost a long time ago. Whether by you or me. Back when you knew what happened. I accidentally became the target of my own searching. 

They always say when you search too much, you become the target, I guess. All of this searching for the old you has killed me. But, don’t for a goddamn second think it was for nothing. The hell I went through, the feeling of those little vines with thorns that I bled through… It’s the fortune of a poet. 

The darkness of the hall was like a movie. Looking for some face to come out of the darkness, but all it was, was the same face I’ve seen before. That analog clock stays at the same time for some reason, but the light keeps it moving as a ghastly grandfather. 

That’s the fortune of a poet.