I wish I could retrace the footsteps
that brought me here, to this point, to your door.
And see the mistakes I have made,
or what wrongs I have righted,
that led me astray or helped me find my way.
I wish I could knock or else turn and go,
and I wouldn’t be so indecisive then.
But I forget if I love you or not.
I do not recall if your eyes
show me sweet love or indifferent lies.
And I’m tired of standing here
not knowing or not willing to do what must be done:
advance or retreat.
I can’t be a fixture at your door,
not opening it because you could hurt me,
not leaving it because you could be kind.
I wish I was a child again
and someone would take my hand and guide me this way or that.
Or else know I was an adult and make my own choice,
instead of being this ugly, awkward, and indecent thing
who knows what a decision is
but can not be forced to make one.