the long walk

I asked you once,
one night, walking home-
when you caught up to me at the corner.
it was cool out,
and breezy
and I asked you,
how I could really know
what I should do with my life-
where the happiness was supposed to come from
and when the self-assurance kicked in.
But you never answered me
because I never really asked you.
We only walked
and spoke of the weather,
and what was,
and what used to be.
I made vain attempts at flattery
and eloquence
and you only told me to watch out for taxis.
And you let me walk with you
so long as I kept up
all the way to where the trees met the bricks
and the gates across the street shut at sundown.
But then I was too far North
and East-
and you were right where you should be.
So you bid me good night and demanded I sleep at some point.
And I left the one way street that ran opposite mine,
traced the edges of the park-
turned westward
to the room with the leaky sink
and the dim light
and crumbling walls.
And I sat,
and I waited.
Until someone else I never actually asked-
only told me to think.
And now,
as I am-
with my answer in hand,
I only want to tell you.

And you're no longer where you should be.