Hopeful.

We were seventeen
standing in the doorway,
ringing bells made of paper-mache.

We'd stand around
and smoke cigarettes
blowing smoke
filled with words
and hoped they'd find their way.

Your neighbors were never close.
Your dad kept a gun in the sill.
Though he swore it was only for stray cats,
I knew he was lonely still.

Now I hate the way I was.
I still hate to be alone.
My goals are still arranging
but now I'm trusting my aim.

You swept the kitchen floor
and I tracked in the leaves,
standing in the door way
with nothing new to say.

I was stamping letters
to my future address's,
but I couldn't have known then.

You were stomping your feet
with a smile on your face,
like when your dad would complain.

Now I know you've always hated me in a way.
I can't say I blame you,
in fact it goes both ways.

Now I take the good with the bad.
With brooms and their splinters,
the closeness of winter
and us in out sweaters,
we'll always do it again.

Reviews

[Meliss@k]

Great!
I enjoyed this to a wonderful extent.
The whole time I read this II had a picture of the scenes in my mind of exactly what you were describing. What a wonderfully written rhyme.

[LacunaBadtz]

This is so heartfilled. I love how you really brought the story to life in the readers eyes. well done :)