you wake up feeling halfway even

almost like you fit in this place,

your conscience pleads the fifth.

your memory like some orphaned son,

who keeps quiet around everyone—

you walk down sidewalks thinking

forward than it’s back to the past,

your lifetime’s just a myth.

did it start when you were young?

believing you’d outsmart everyone—

it’s your own cruel addiction

holding on to their suspicion,

like two halves being pulled apart.

it’s all you know so it’s just

become the way you are

broke down before it even starts—

you play with people’s feelings

using them to fill in the cracks,

running through your head.

are you good enough for them?

believing that you could fit in.

it’s your lack of intention

becoming part of their invention,

no one is who they say they are.

it’s either on your own

or else entwined in the dark,

like two halves being pulled apart.

it’s all you know so it’s just

become the way you are,

broke down before it even starts.

I can not pretend to be

anything other

than fond of wandering.

Some days lost,

others found.

And whether or not

I’m in or out

the control’s never mine.

In fact, I could be anyone

anywhere—unstuck in time—

with a Pilgrim’s knack

for the ordinary; weak

without a hero’s heart.

Vulnerable enough indeed

to master the art

of a lonesome traveler’s fart—

that he is not, nor ever could be

alone in the universal thread

that is but one common mind,

one common heart, that is

but one common life apart.

That in this very minute

and unlikely space in time

two separate set of eyes

can gaze upon the diamond sky

and see,

one identical night,

alive within the ether

of one identical light

separate, yet one.