when I was younger, I was a writer

by epi

When they ask me
The things I’ll remember
I want to tell them this:
The sound of crickets,
And burning cigarettes,
And silence so pure
That for the first time
I wonder if true pain
and true peace
Can only exist
Hand in hand.
I want to tell them
How I sat with my
Back to the world,
Facing instead myself
Knowing that in the end
It’s all we’ll know anyway
(our dim image reflected
In a dirty window, seeing everything
In and within and behind
And yet
Nothing at all.
I want to tell them all of this
But somehow I know
That my words aren’t right
Or their ears don’t work
Or (and we both know this is the truth)
I am a coward.

I want to tell them, but
I put down my pen
Reaching over to press play
And search for a song with
Someone else’s words
That I can repeat about a sunset
That no one ever saw.