Is this honest loneliness
Or a conflict in vanity
That leads me to a more tolerable isolation
In the newness of the unchartered?
The failure to love weighs
So heavily on a misdirected heart
It seems too late to try
To reach out to a phantom feeling.
I still find it hard to look in the face of all I've been missing, because to do so is to face the guilt in my negligence.
There is a girl, on the first observation deck of the Rockefeller Center, her palms pressed against the glass, her eyes hard and bright and blue as she watches the traffic far below her, her elbows locked as she keeps the edge far away. The murmuring of the people around her float around her head, and the tiles push up from under her feet, and the wind keeps wrapping her hair around her face, but all the while she feels suspended, pinned to a point in time and space.
She watches the sun set too quickly, and open-mouthed the only word she knows anymore is "--WAIT."