The Hopeless • Amanda Lewis

I've never hoped.
I've either known or not known.
My head lifts away from my stash of
lucid ramblings, the ones I saved for a night like this,
when you require something real
spiked into your ear
to fall asleep.

I remove the pile you keep in your mind,
the random flock from which you feed:
fear today.
boredom tomorrow.
and we can save this worry for dessert,
sweetly soaked in guilt,
a spoonful of "I don't want to."
a dribble of "I can't do this for one more pointless minute."
I remember when you feasted, and
why I would sometimes find it difficult
to let my dreams take over
while lying next to you past midnight.


It's all the same.

You want magic in every syllable,
anticipation in every word.
You don't want to guess.

I close my eyes, and beg you to dream,
and we find it: the never-ending ascension
the slow climb that started with a leap,
and the shouts, "You have to get on! There are no other trains."
So I boarded, bound for a destination
that I still can't pinpoint.

We sit hand-in-hand as you
sometimes gaze,
sometimes stir,
but always return.
I can't help but play the familiar loop in my head,
"What goes up must come down."

I close my eyes,
and pretend not to hope
that we will float
that we will linger
that gravity has mercy on us,
and we can remain here,
among the stars and the happy void of the uncertain,
the warmth found in space we can share,
and time we can hold.


Amanda Jane Lewis is a freelance writer living in Orlando, FL. 
You can connect with her on Twitter at @AmandaJPrem.