The doorstep

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.

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