I  seem to spend my life waiting,
For people to remember me,
For people to forget me
(those are the ones I don't really care about);

If I sit here long enough I will turn to dust,
My winter shadow lengthening,
My skin dictating my age;
Expectation is the mother and father
of disappointment,
So I'm keeping mine low,
casual, being fine either way;

In the meantime I'll meditate
on projecting loving kindness
to myself and the people I want
to remember and 
(only as much as I'm able)
to the people I'm trying to forget;

I'll work on myself and my daddy issues
(will they ever be resolved?)
I'll work at being someone
who's good at waiting,
And maybe, just maybe, 
I'll get my happy ending or, at least,
a more contented journey.

The End

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