The Prize

By J.S

You are the reason that I write

at least right now,

such pretty words

from such an unfinished place.

You are my eye-spy,

my glance around corners,

my habit of searching the near sky

watching license plates

as they drive by

I miss the old me,

though even he

would not have been that perfect combination.

which leaves this empty pit

this is a hole in me

the shape of an entire future.

Yet

another ending

pulled tight like sutures.

I gambled with materiality.

I ruined my own reality.

But you,

you were the wager

I placed with both hands.

And in slow motion

I watched and waited.

An inhale.

Time froze.

The cards fell.

And I won.

I won.
And I couldnt believe it.

But when I went

to redeem the prize,

my hands could not hold the layers.

It was mountains

of glimmering diamonds,

each grain too small

to keep,

each one catching

the most beautiful light

I had ever seen.

I spent years

trying to cut corners

through grief,

trying to carry that light

without first letting go

of all the pain.

Pain I helped create.

Without rejoining the world.

Without becoming again

what I once was.

What I still am,

somewhere.

I remain the recipient

of the greatest prize:

a whole, wonderful other life

I was lucky enough

to almost touch.

But this moment,

this reality,

shows only remorse

for the prize

that learned to love the claimant

and still

could not be taken.

Or is still waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

While I fumble

with my hands in my pockets,

singing love songs

with the lights out

on both of us.

My Sunday-best sentiments

folded carefully

in a world without omniscience,

without permission,

on standby.

Missing you dearly.

Thinking about you.

And still,

with no place left

to put all this love,

writing.