Percieved as my tired gaze paces back, forth,
in between this screen and the screen of my droning summer's night's window...
that source of tired moans,
pregnant swells of smells that only summer brings,
that only lonely ears can bring...
To a rushing roar, an overwhelming surf...
Crashing down, pregnant with possibility,
missed opportunity,
And frustration.
For awhile there it didn't seem it would matter...
How the creep back...
After lovely silent winters...
the air and scent only snapping with death...
And those insecurities died in my mind then...
Now this swell of summer and heat and
anticipation for what is completely unknown,
but completely promised,
and anticipated,
and overdue...
The swell of my chest and my confidence
And all at once all those doctors and mother's reassurances...
And girls and women who wondered and stated...
Whatever.
Whatever it may be that I feel now,
it is not much of anything.
It is not much of myself or who I am,
Only temporary passing,
seasonal frustration...
As all others around me mature in harmony with their appearance...
Their frames demanding their own confidence, demanding their own maturity,
masculinity, and persona...
It's alright. I wouldn't write if I wasn't Short.
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