I was never a poet.

This was the title of one of my posts up on my old blog.

Met this person back when I was 16 and I kinda didn't want to keep things high key so I always wrote about him and us with metaphors hoping that people wouldn't get the reference but also trying to turn all of those emotions I had back then into something productive (at least). And then I just left those things back there to kinda rot until I can be sure that I wouldn't be embarrassed of them anymore and I found one particular one I wrote kinda (don't mind me) impressive now that I read about it again so I'm gonna go ahead and shamelessly put it back up here again.

Lost

Over and over again.

Do you ever feel where everything is back in place

like

what it feels like if you ever got on

a ride on a stranger's car not because you

want to waste your life away

but because it only feels like a right thing to do and

that stranger feels so familiar even though

he is really just

a stranger?

And when the ride finally ends and you're dropped off

carefully

back at where you hopped on

everything feels so real and right

but it feels

so

strange,

as if you would never want to get into another car

just to preserve that memory of that particular ride?

It's even stranger

when you know this journey is short and going nowhere

even during the ride itself

subconsciously,

though both you and that stranger said nothing about it,

you know that the car is heading to where you got on;

and where you shall alight.

And during the nights you would cross by that place again

that place where it ended and began;

sometimes to force yourself to accept that you'll

never see that same car passing again;

sometimes to look for another ride.

Yet they say not to look for happiness at the same place you lost it.

Maybe if you had made it clearer to the stranger how much you

enjoy the ride

he wouldn't drop you off that fast.

Maybe.

Maybe.

When it all comes to an end,

Stranger becomes another driver on the street.

"He" becomes a "he'.

Habits becomes a memory.

And you're the only one left on the street,

feeling not that bad- not to the extend where you would cry

but feeling like

you'd never meet that kind of happy again.

Until another car picks you up and drives you off.

But for now

you just want to walk

alone.

And when you do,

you end up back where

you're dropped off.

Again and Again.

Lost.