on hope

it’s been a while and i wish to write about hope

about your longings being met or

about your wishes finding home

about happiness ringing the bell at your door each morning

in the form of a warm cup or

a hand that embraces yours

exactly the way you want it to

i wish to write about hope

on how they surely can’t miss your smile today, the one that takes over your entire face in the shape of a boat

or how they ought to notice the way your eyes always turn honey brown in the sun

or how it’s possible to be seen, noticed, heard, and you are not just imagining

or of having dreams that are less lonely, and not with strangers you have never met

nights that are less vacant

of love

after all this time, i wish to write about hope but all that does to me is make me feel empty

as if writing takes it all away from me and

helpless longing is all that’s left (again)

but seeing others in hope, in wait, im endless longing

in wonder of everyday wonders gives a little hope

and so i wonder, where actually (does it go) is it going?

not me, not them, not you, who?

the cruelty of a possession that can’t be seen

is that it can’t be possessed either

so no matter how hopeful i feel

its still not mine to call

and still not mine to pronounce

hope can come and leave again

whenever it wishes

because i cannot claim it and

neither can i ever make it stay