you accuse me of being a drifter, vague in the way that i slip through the years. you’ve always liked to stay back and watch me work, never quite placing a definite on the table. it’s true, so tempting to always offer maybe, like it’s a promise for all that’s yet to come.
and so life goes on in this way, sentences ended as if with a question and story-tellings interrupted before they can see their logical end. you never catch on to my leaving habits, always a step behind – always roused by the door closing just as i slip out.
(by the time you’ve risen, i’m gone again) and it’s your turn to search again. this is the pattern we follow; you chase me across the world, letting me run as far as i like and pulling me back. you still don’t know how to break it.