Paths

I like to make a path down the center. There are three columns, four rows deep in every twelve pack of beer. A wall of bottles on either side as I travel through 12 ounces at a pace.

Protected from all that's outside those walls. At the center is everything and nothing. Just where it belongs.

But then, when the last bottle's left still blocking that path, i turn my focus to the edges. Because you have to leave something at the end of that road to keep yourself moving.

Who is that ghost in the mirror as I pass. All dressed up in her distorted wisdoms. Switching moods like songs because none seem to fit.

There's always a first bottle. Always a last. But how many are between them isn't so much a number as it is a measurement.

How far we've gone. So far still to go. So many walls. So few ways to go through them.

Who's that ghost? It's obvious. In every path. And in every wall. In every ounce it took to find them.

The center is what I seek, but god, how I miss the edge.