love · poems · poetry · poets

The Past Poem; a poem

I am terribly afraid.

I am scared of becoming the piece of past you ran from.

That I may become a living memory that is not my own.

Same record; different break.

You see, I have this tendency to lose myself in people.

I won’t find my beginning  and end; nor my middle.

I only become people that I thought I used to know.

So forgive me when I beg you for something.

I’m just trying to not to fall out of my present into another person’s past.

Another set of laced hand when the sun starts to sink.

Another hand print.

Another almost

I’ll ask you to chase shadows with me.

And then you’ll choose my past or future.



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