Poetry Dabbles XVI

Some dreams should just be dashed. 



Poetry Dabbles XIII

((Note: I took a poetry class in college and I just remembered all those poems I wrote still exist on my computer, so I’m going to start posting them from time to time. This is one where the prompt was to write in more of a prose style.)

White Picket Fences

I was driving the other day, I can’t recall the exact time, but it definitely was last week. . . I think. The road seemed familiar and distinct, again, I couldn’t recall why. The neighborhood made me feel like I belonged but I just couldn’t get out of my car and call any of these houses ‘home’.

But then it hit me.

This is where you used to live. The house on the corner, with the side yard that looked out onto the street and where that shooting happened that one time. . . I wasn’t there for that. Your best friend lives across the street, and his family still calls you family. I feel like a ghost in this part of town. Like there’s a threshold I can’t cross and I’m stuck on my side. You don’t live there anymore, I know this, but it feels like you still do and I can’t move on and can’t intrude on your life or the lives of your neighbors.