Anthony David

It seems I am at the end and the beginning, of what it is gone and what it is to come. 

For what may come, I can only dream it, wish it and either, wait for it or run to it. But it would be to run into nothingness.

My dreams come true, if only . . . A memory only or wishful thinking. Unrealistic, exactly, I know reality too well.

To be loved why does it seem that we are not to love ourselves too? To be loved why does it seem that we are to sacrifice our heart and soul?

To keep them, to keep myself then it is for me the endless death of ongoing existence. Or it could only be that I feel sad today and tomorrow he will be gone from my thoughts.

Gone forever, until I see him again or hear him, or maybe until I see a cat or hear the rain. I’ll  forget him until my next Sunday morning cup of coffee.

Or maybe tomorrow I’ll remember when I was hurt, or when I cried, or when I didn’t understand and this thoughts will push him out of my mind.

At the end and at the beginning as it is suppose to be. To make room for what it is to come some things need to be gone. 

Gone, but not gone, never or maybe always.

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