It seems I’ve reached the point
where instead of moving towards
what are promised to be
the most beautiful years of my life
I am moving through them, past them
onward and away
while still feeling myself to be waiting.
My efforts are disjointed,
a futile writhing
against that which does not even need
to push back
because it has already won.
the most beautiful moments of my life
are the ones waiting.
They wait for me to notice them
in the chords of a song, in peaceful afterthoughts,
in windy nights by the lake, city humming
with life in the distance, boats rocking, sails writhing
against thin air.