A Year

Is it the time? I'm not sure.

Or is there something there?

To tell would be pulling the cord on myself.

Maybe this is not for me,

The target in an armed crowd.

It's a dilemma, really.

Whether I should move forward

With lust in the air,

All the while pain fills the darkness of your room.

Or turn back to the wide arms of loneliness.

And maybe that's it,

Do I look to you for more than wide arms?

Could it be found in the person next to you?

Then there's the other feeling.

Why do his words linger in my mouth as I mock them?

Bullets to my heart shot in the open crowd.

I'm not sure.

One thing is certain, however.

That night I felt something.

He's your friend,

A close one at that.

Do you--better yet have you done anything?

Do you want to?

Have you?

Are you?

On, and on, these questions pierce my brain,

Causing greater pain with the realization that

They'll remain unanswered.

To ask would be pulling the cord on myself.