An Affiar

To us, new is always better than old.

We are the ones scribbling fast in our notebooks,

forcing the past onto paper

and the future into the forefront of our minds.

We are the ones on the trains watching trees fly by

imagining our old lives rushing like the leaves.

To us, old means chains and new means wings,

memories are bogged down in reality but the future’s clear as springs.

The future is our light in the darkness,

dimmed by each step forward in vain,

but never snuffed out, never lost to pain,

because we don’t really ask to fly just to dance in the rain-

and hover,

a few feet off the ground,

enough to escape that cold hard truth:

that we’re not doing it just to get out of town

we’re doing it because we need to move and

that the future is never really here.

It’s always out of reach but

never out of sight, never out of mind,

I’ve got a love for the future,

but she doesn’t take my calls and

I send her daises because

someday I’ll be rich as Gatsbys,

but I wont beat into the past,

I’ll row away from my present

and get caught in the sea of pages

of journals filled with the old versions of me

wanting the old versions of you

to just this once, for us, be new.