You walk so fast, those long legs of yours, you’re always leaving me behind. It used to annoy me or make me sad but now it’s just a matter of course. Except it is sad, I suppose, that you walking away from me has become the way that I expect things to be.

What are we doing? What am I doing?

You always turn back though. You always turn back to me. Sometimes with impatience, sometimes with the warmth you might grant a favored child. But you always turn back and maybe that’s the part that I’m giving emphasis to, the part that I’m making important.

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.

It’s disconcerting to reach an age that anyone would consider grown up – I mean, you get this close to 40 and you are absolutely grown up – and still find yourself in situations where you just have no sense of certainty over the right choice, the right path. There’s no knowing whether it’s a great leap of faith or a futile and pathetic delay of the inevitable. The ultimate label for the action is determined not by the action itself, but by how things work out in the end.

I’m wasting my time here, aren’t I? Am I wasting my time?

I love the way you look squarely at me when I laugh, as if your joy is magnified by mine.

I hate your temper, like flash paper, so sudden and bright and hot.

I love how tender you are in those brief glimpses you give me of your heart.

This doesn’t have an end yet, but I suspect it’s coming.

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Cynthia Lugo

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