Flip through, skipping clippings of my thoughts
like an old magazine,
Skipped through, flipping clippings as I thought,
‘I mean, yeah. That’s a thing.
Yeah, that’s still a thing.’
Is it still thinking if I know it?
What if we sometimes slowed down to breathe?
When did I get so removed from me?
What if we never lowered our sails?
When did I find my way way off the rails?
How’d I, while crawling, climb my way back?
Why did I fall so far off this track?
How’d we rewind to fighting ourselves?
How’d we calm angels living in hell?
I’ll still always answer.
They see you differently than I do.
I didn’t find me just for you.
We’re so different
in exactly the same ways.
Don’t they know what we say to ourselves?
While we’re talking about this,
can we talk about something else?
Silence hangs in a frame above a top shelf.
I don’t care when.
Meet me at Sky Harbor or up around the bend,
when it all feels like trying to get back
to a place that you’ve never been.
this is your life chuck johnson 