Like a drunk, I sway in the wind,
legs opposing the mind’s intention
to keep parallel to the path.
Only determination holds steady
this march of commitment, amid
a sea of uncertainty walking, a path
cracked and downtrodden,
loose with unfulfilled holes, spilling
desire into puddles.
My stomach creeps up to my throat, seeking
reassurance from its familiar cries,
that a Mother’s bliss could soothe
by the lullaby of youth now outgrown;
unaware that innocence had a sell-by date.
A marked down emotion, now piled high
at the end of an aisle, its tainted promise
offering nothing more than the value of immediacy.
‘Too good to be true’, remembered,
and immediately forgotten
that first touch, that made my world whole.
Am I now vintage, not newly discarded
or merely second-hand perhaps,
to be found by another who has mislaid
one similar? Can a touch become new,
no comparison made to the hands
that knew every crevice
like the back of his own hands?