Being

Photo by Zhen H on Unsplash

I often think of me being.

What I could’ve accomplished, or what I could’ve saved.
What I could’ve be, or where I could’ve been.

What does it mean to be?

I often dream of being,
laying down in fields of fuschia with my eyes following the clouds,
as the wind pulled them away, I’d turn and look at you.
We’d hold hands, and we’d pluck flowers.
We’d sit by the fields,
we’d escape reality.

I yearned to be,
a man that fits all stereotypes.
A body that woman craves,
a minivan with two baby seats,
for Deborah and Caleb.

What I want to be,
I can’t be in this life.
Maybe next,
I’d dream of being.

But for now,
I’ll sit at the bar,
a stout in front of me,
and just think of me,
Being.