by Susan Pendley
somewhere
in my dreams
and when I wake,
the relentless crawler ticks.
A senseless scrolling of regrets.
I want to wind down
into that prairie-dog town
and find you there
gnawing on the corners
of my mind.
If I wander through the maze
you made
would I see you there?
Could I touch you
and hear your voice?
I run through the catacombs,
deeper in
where only dreams exist.
A room I made for you.
It grew, took root,
I housed you there
pasting the walls
with your words
like papier-mâché art.
A pulsing shrine
like a womb growing
its own life supply.
My words
trapped in a bubble in my mouth
like a child
now echo in this endless cave.
My hope chases memories,
some evidence to cling to,
and I try to outrun regrets.
Sometimes I win:
acceptance settles in.
Other times, I let
them catch me.
Because if I try
to rewrite the end,
and search through this mess,
if I play and replay my part,
you are here still.
But so am I.