Understanding

I wish I were a character,

out of a book,

whose journey was

dramatic and moving

or funny and intelligent.

I wish I said or did the right things,

and I wish someone else was writing it.

Hunched over a desk

writing away my life,

waxing poetic,

making me a hero.

I wish they would write

my lines and actions,

I wish they would write my fate.

I wish I were a protagonist,

in a fantasy land or reality,

battling villains both historical and modern.

I wish my story were relatable

and my personality palatable.

I wish I were timeless

and taught a thousand years from now

in English classes,

I wish my story would be good enough

to ignore and breathe confidence

into every procrastinating student.

I wish they would wing my test and get an ‘A’.

Because that would mean my story

was universal,

that it’s themes and metaphors

had already been done before.

Only then would I be understood.

A String of Maybes

Maybe you’d show up this time and I wouldn’t be left at the table downing a bottle of wine. Maybe you’d remember this time. Maybe this time I’d be important, or at least more important than whatever came up. Maybe this time was the time you’d finally decide to open your eyes and see what’s always been in front of you. Maybe this time you’ll realize we could be more. Maybe you’ll sit at the table waiting, sweating through your suit sipping scotch. Maybe this time it’ll be you fantasizing and not me. Maybe I’ll dress up. Maybe you won’t pick me up at my apartment, so I’ll walk and it’ll rain. Maybe on my way something comes up, someone. Maybe he shares his umbrella and a smile. Maybe I’m early like always so he and I grab a coffee. Maybe I get lost in his eyes and conversation. Maybe he looks just like you, only he doesn’t make me cry. Maybe this is the first time you sit at a table set for two, candles flickering out as you finish the champagne you bought for us. Maybe I’ve given up or let go or told myself for so long that friendship was enough. So maybe I marry Jason or Mark or Adam because he cooks and gives me the time of day. Maybe I settle into contentment because I feel appreciated. Maybe sometimes when I’m with him I forget he isn’t you.