there's just those
two planes of glass
to allow in the world

and it's only the wind
that's bothering
to batter against
my sturdy walls,
telling me I'm still alive

it's common fact
i'm crazy
but I'm convinced
each whistling gust
is confirming my belief;
it's only the wind
I can't push away

nature has always
been stalwart enough to keep
pushing back

if I were brave enough
to venture outside
do you think
it could push me back
to the beginning?

to when
I wasn't stuck
in this appalling
state of vagueness

when my words
were filled with exactly
their meaning

and "hey,
how are you?"
wasn't me
really saying:
I think I'm in love with you

"talk to you later"
wasn't, I don't know
how to fit into your life
or even if I should.

back to when
I was able to sit
next to you,
close enough
for your thigh
to burn mine
and I could clasp
my hands together
to keep them
from giving me away
by their unintentional
wandering

to when
I was solid
in the fact
that it was ok
to feel this way
but not act on it

there's a little
part of me
that wants to spend
the rest of my life
standing in the wind
hoping for the best

but the rest of me
and you
know
I'm just going
shut the window
and go about
what's left of my day.