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?