Your fingers made ruptures on my heart,
as our feet moved not too fast,
and our minds thought not too slow.
Your hand swings by,
to say a little hi,
but I pull away.
No longer, not yet.
You’re a man on fire,
and I’m a girl of flames.
But I burnt holes into your metaphorical image,
and now you’re waiting,
for your opportunity to do the same.
No longer, not yet.
Our hot air balloons float through the sky,
as our eager eyes fade away
through the vast valleys of dark and light,
though I can hear your voice calling
through the thick fog of our hearts,
“Come back.”
But I ignore it.
No longer, not yet.
Your hands clasp together,
through the music of God,
and I stand at a distance,
watching your every move,
hoping I’ll get another chance
to say the goodbye I meant to.
No longer.
I sought a tongue-twister,
where the only words were with your name,
as we jot down lists,
and cling to the ropes of our imagination,
as the future bleeds ahead,
and our heads fill with glitter glue.
Not yet.
But since we are no longer,
we can’t stand forever.
So we stand between a line
of finesse and belonging.
And our not yets
won’t last for long.
So we crawl steadily
through a world of misfortune and regret.
No longer, not yet.
The Young Writers Project provides VPR's audience another avenue to hear and read selections and see visual art and photography from Vermont's young writers and artists. The project is a collaboration organized by Susan Reid at the Young Writers Project. The thoughts and ideas expressed here are the writers' own and do not necessarily reflect those of Vermont Public Radio.
