Far be it from me to write what I’m unsure of.

But this much I understand.

What I was sure of was your hand in mine.

 

I may not be one to know the art of moving forward

much at all anymore.

Everything comes back to you in some form.

I can’t sleep without seeing you in my dreams.

I can’t even drive on the road next to my house without seeing where our feet touched concrete,

where our hearts found where they would meet.

 

And where they split apart.

And you found where the footsteps were on the clouds.

All I could find was the ground.

 

Because it was where you were.

 

We existed in the same moment in time,

loved in circles that always came back around.

What I was sure of was your hand in mine.

 

Like this sense of belonging.
Even in the arguments.

 

The art of moving forward can’t look anything like this.

Coming back to that delicate kiss.

The art of moving in slow motion,

like running in the ocean.

 

Where the sand pulls your toes to it.

The water hits your knees and you’ve lost this form of art.

How can you fall asleep so easily?
How do mornings come so effortlessly?
 

The mornings seem forcing,

Forcing a sense of restarting

But nothing ever begins again.

 

This doesn't feel like art at all.