Untitled

This piece was written almost eight years ago and was inspired by a piece written by a friend in lit class. I think I like the overall feel of the piece more so than the content itself, so this is one that may get reposted later after some editing and changes.

When you reach the end you realize that
maybe you made the wrong choices after all,
and that your parents were right when they said
that two wrongs don't make a right, and that
you have to fight for what you believe in.
But you didn't want to listen back then.
And your lover, when she stared at you with those
big brown eyes, was really trying to tell you
that she didn't want it to end
even though that's what she said.
And you shouldn't have let her go,
but the thought of her staying scared you more.
And when you think back to the days
of bare feet and lemonade,
making shapes out of clouds, you wonder if
maybe you knew then how it would all turn out,
but you didn't know what the feeling meant.
But maybe it's better that way.
Now you've become the old man, leering at young women
thinking you're much younger than you are,
even though you feel much older.
And the waiter keeps filling your glass
so it's always full and you don't think that
you've had anything to drink.
And every night you think that maybe you've made a difference,
that maybe something that you said
had changed someone's day for the better.
Like the day your mother died and your
father told you stories of how she'd climbed mountains,
just to be closer to the sun,
and how she always wanted to take the train
to make the journey last.
And you'd smiled because she'd always complained
how you took too long to get up in the mornings
just trying to make the sleep last.