Cut left and dodge the lovers' spat.
Cut right and miss the rebound.
Deke the weighty glares
and cold regrets
and burning insecurities
that make us think:

'If only we could match our gaping strides
to different time and places paces
we'd score every goal ourselves
and not just settle for "assist."'

It get's too lonely out-right sprinting there
and passing hard to no one,
Calling "help!" before you're smothered--
Only hearing desperate echos.

Let the awkward silence hang in time to contemplate
the reason why it stings to hit the ground
but don't wait aeons lying in the dirt and licking wounds
before you walk it off and realize
that's just how the game is played ;)

02/12/2004

Posted on 02/13/2004
Copyright © 2025 Trisha De Gracia