The Wait

This is another poem written ten years ago that I could have written today. She went away to college and became a smoker. It was just one of the many things I became jealous of.
Sometimes I'm haunted by the accuracy of these words after all this time.


THE WAIT

Sometimes I think you love that smoke more than you love me.
I get very envious of everything.
But you like to light up and puff away and suck down the country flavor
and blow smoke in my face to make me cough.
And you weigh my soul.
And you burn my hand.
What charm. What enchantment.
What character you possess with that burning stick in your hand.
I wish I had character.
You're killing me with it, you know.
I want you to love me like you love that smoke.
Or else I want to love that smoke as well.
I want to understand your love for that smoke.

I used to believe in a thousand different childhood dreams.
You killed a few. Growing up did the rest.
But I grew up for you. Do you think I like this?
This thoughtless, selfish, lifeless creature that I've somehow become?
You come expecting me to turn you inside out with laughter and loathing.
The pressure tugs me away and pushes me into a journey where I search
for other things,
for other people,
for myself.
I've been told I can learn more from myself than I can from the rest of the world.
I won't let them teach me.
And yet they've somehow influenced everything I've done.
I may leave. But I will come back.
And when I do come back,
I might not feel the same as I did when I walked out.
I don't have any golden guarantees or lifetime warranties to offer.

You can't feel this. It's like someone's tickling me on the inside.
And it hurts.