The Road Ahead
There are turns you just don’t get to take—
not because anyone’s cruel,
but because once wires knot up,
the whole thing sparks out.
So, folks split off,
and the timing and reasons
close themselves with a sigh.
The soft‑hearted part of me
wants to argue with that,
wants to circle back,
jiggle the lock on the old gate,
see if the latch still gives.
But the realist—
that gravel‑voiced buddy—
leans in and says:
going back only messes with the lesson,
looking back just slows the walk.
Still, absence doesn’t disappear.
It sprouts side‑paths:
a hollow in the chest that catches rain,
a chair at the table that makes you sit straighter,
a silence that learns your name
and answers when you call.
So, absence hangs around,
not because you asked it to,
but because it won’t leave—
a shadow that keeps pace,
a hand you can’t grab
but still feel brushing your sleeve.
Paths might cross again, or not.
The smarter move is forward,
feet steady on the gravel,
eyes open for the next bend.
And even as I keep walking,
I carry the ache like a small flame—
not to light the way back,
but to see a little clearer the road ahead.