deepthoughts

Ashes and Dust

It was not a solo journey,
It was meant for both of us to keep.
A path shared, a mutual destiny,
A bond where promises run deep.
We walked side by side, our footprints one,
A single narrative of hope begun.

But the story broke, the path was closed,
I stood on the chasm’s crumbling brim,
As a silhouette, slowly transposed
Into the inevitable, growing dim.
The ‘we’ became an ‘I’, a hollow sound,
In this desolate, forsaken ground.

Ashes and dust are all that stay
Of the bright fire we held in trust,
A barren landscape, grey today,
Where life dissolved in the air’s cruel gust.
The physical presence is no more,
Leaving the grit of loss upon the floor.

Then voices come from the periphery,
Offering platitudes in careful phrase.
They say, “It is not personal, you see,”
A necessary turn in cosmic haze.
A consequence, unavoidable and stark,
A wheel that turns and leaves no malice mark.

They speak these words, so cold and clinical,
To soothe a wound they cannot comprehend.
Do they expect a heart, now critical,
To take this lie, this foolishness they send?
To call abandonment ‘impersonal’ then claim
It takes the searing edges from the pain?

It is a construct, fragile and designed
To shield their own complicity from view.
Lies and more lies are spun to leave behind
Their failures of commitment, wholly true.
The architects of ruin hide their face,
Behind the veil of fate or bureaucratic space.

They see my silence and begin to doubt,
Why I won’t trust their flimsy, weak assurance;
They wonder why my quiet stays throughout
Their clumsy, hollow show of endurance.
Is their concern a genuine desire to know
The depth of the betrayal’s silent blow?

Or is the query just a social art,
A reflex uttered in a scripted play?
Do they care for me, the broken, scattered part,
Or am I just a failure they wish away?
I let the fine, particulate dust stream in—
The dust of forgetting, where true wounds begin.

I scan the empty space, a vacant stare,
Where is the circle that was meant to hold?
I know they exist, breathing their own air,
In parallel worlds of comfort, brave and bold.
Not here with me, not for me in this plight,
Not in the core of this seismic, lonely night.

It was meant to be the two of us, you see,
Walking the sunset, weathering the storm.
The fundamental premise of our entity.
But I was left alone, without the warm,
Not just abandoned, but deliberately selected
For solitary confinement, unprotected.

A cold clarity begins its slow, strange birth,
The isolation may not be a curse,
But a final, hard-won gift of self-worth.
Maybe it’s best to sift these ashes terse,
Unbound by promises that turned to frail dust.
In this quiet, hard-won peace is final trust.

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The Unspoken Question of Worth

Am I a difficult person to be friends with?
The question echoes in the lonely silence,
A heavy query, weighted by repeated pain.
I dissect each word, each passing glance,
Seeking the flaw so visible to others’ eyes,
Yet stubbornly opaque, a shadow on my own stain.

Am I too awkward, my presence a strain?
Does nervousness stilt the practiced conversation?
I rehearse the words, the balance I must find,
To hold the moment, a calculated equation.
But the words tumble out, a chaotic, hurried rush,
Leaving the perfect moment behind.

Am I too anxious, a constant, worrying hum?
A fear of saying too much, of taking up space,
Of simply being a burden, too large, too loud.
This anxiety, palpable, a barrier I can’t erase,
A repellent field that pushes people away,
Before a true connection is allowed.

Do I forget to hold my tongue’s sharp edge?
I value honesty, perhaps too stark and free.
I speak without the varnish of social grace,
And the truth, though gently offered, can still be
Mistaken for bluntness, a candor that drives them out.
What is it? A flaw I cannot place.

I don’t have many friends; the truth is stark.
My circle’s small, fragile, and often transient.
I don’t know what’s wrong, the fundamental divide.
While others form bonds, lasting and resilient,
Mine disintegrate like paper submerged in water,
With nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide.

I am a friend until a better one appears.
I serve a purpose, a stand-in for the interim,
A convenient stop until a brighter option’s found.
I am never good enough, always on the rim;
The comparison is the moment of my replacement.
I am the waiting room, not the desired ground.

I hold on too long, clinging to the frayed thread,
Stretching the inevitable goodbye, a profound fear.
My loyalty, my constancy, becomes a weight,
A burden they let go, holding nothing dear.
Sometimes I must be the one to let go first,
A painful, self-preserving, final tear.

It is lonely at times, profoundly I miss
The shared laughter, the feeling of belonging, deep inside.
But is it real, or the memory idealized?
A performance they gave, while they stood by my side,
Waiting for the true cast, the better friends to arrive.
In the lie of the past, there’s no place left to confide.

I will be there for those who need me to be.
My nature unchanged, I offer care freely,
A reliable constant, though never the primary light.
If you want me to go, tell me honestly.
Spare me the slow fade, the ghosting, the agonizing fight.
But if you call again, I’ll return without demanding right.

Cherish the friends who remain by your side.
Focus on the true constants, the precious, small few.
If some want to leave, let them walk away;
Their departure speaks of their needs, not a judgment on you.
Accept the impermanence, hold the good memories fast,
And keep the door open for the few who are true.