At the Entrance

 Sometimes I wonder 'If'... if this, if that,

always asking questions, never getting the answers.

I have always been fascinated by the concept of poison,

the choices a person makes, 

the whole process really;

how they watch it being poured

and still lift the glass.

Did you have questions of your own that begged to be answered,
but finally chose silence for your own peace, really?

Because I know all too well the comforting silence of silence.

It never asks, never doubts.

It doesn’t even answer, really.

It just listens.

And trust me, babe, I know how important listening is.

But sometimes I think of why people search for listeners 

in a world of talkers,

why people give and give where they know 

they will get nothing back.

I will never know why you keep drinking from something

that was never meant to quench you.

Why do you?

You stare up at that building,

screaming your lungs out,

at the party on the rooftop

their music devouring your voice mercilessly.

I could tell you that you love barking up the wrong tree,

but

I think you know,

and I think I’ll never understand.

You are tired. 

Your feet have already betrayed you.

I bet if they were still strong, you’d be sprinting up,

taking the stairs two at a time.

But you can’t.

I bet, if one of them peered down accidentally,

they wouldn’t even notice.

Not that you are hard to see,

but because they’d never be able to peer into your eyes —

the dark ebony brown, all the hurt they hold.

You do your best to hide it.

And I’m sure you look beautiful even in pain,

but I wouldn’t know, would I?

Not from my place in front of you,

waiting for you at the entrance,

half hidden by the door.

They might hear your shouts someday,
but they will never feel it deep in their bones.

They will never know the shattering sound

of your silence.

But I still see you — the way your legs shake,

the way you firmly plant your feet nonetheless.

Maybe even if I do reach out for you,

my hand would just come out empty.

Hoping — no, wishing — on every last star

that if only you’d look down.

Down at me.

And you’ll see me waiting, my shoulders ready.

I promise 

if you did, I would sprint to you.

Maybe if you did, I wouldn’t be so unsure

whether or not you will deem my shoulder worthy

of holding your pretty head.

Maybe I could run to you,

not caring whether you look at me first or not.

But again, maybe my feet are more stubborn than yours.

Maybe I am just as broken as you are.

No, I’m sure I have nothing to offer.

I want to help you,

but I don’t have it myself,

the help, I mean.

Maybe I was never the antidote.

Maybe you were never looking for one.