Under a Tree I Tried to Talk Buddha Out of It

It's very nice,

To sit here alone,

To remember every crack in your pale skin,

And give that weak smile of pure gratitude,

Looking at the open black ceiling,

We are so far away,

From each other,

In the same room we run miles,

To keep you from seeing me,

To keep my selfish solidarity,

Will we ever come to the point?

I'm feeling the weight of the blood,

In my veins wondering why,

We run miles,

To keep from being seen,

The echoes snap on,

Pictures of a past we so yearn for,

Memories are so much better,

Than what I feel now,

Sifting through my unsteady hands,

Like sand, or of a finer grit,

The powder of what I wanted,

Out of life,

As a child I would shake my fists,

With rolled up sleeves and cry,

It was so right,

You got it so right,

We weren't going to have to do anything,

And now this,

And now we run miles,

To catch up with something we never quite defined,

But please don't admit to all you're tired now,

Oh please breath heavy into my ears,

Close your eyes and just once,

Look for me.