Paths

My feet are worn from treading heavy paths for you. While I take each dusty step, you glide in front of me, never touching the ground. It would be so simple if I had wings like yours–bold, in spring colors, dainty like a flutter-by’s, beating strong like your heart and the color of your eyes. My wings are gone. I clipped then myself, with prongs of doubt and irrational comparisons.

Time moves in your direction–not backwards or forwards, but at your command, jostled, awoken from a linear sleep by your need for entertainment. And I move with it. Time and I are good friends now, following your lead day after day when we have the lucidity to differentiate day from night. My body feels heavy, but I keep walking. I’ve got no direction without you. 

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