Something between prose and poetry

Every word I speak is a whim these days. Nothing concrete holds me to the floor. I've thought so many times about just walking out that door, and never looking back. I'd make my way around this town, and when I'd had my fill I'd just keep moving on to face whatever God has in His will for me, and walk away the conqueror, and fill my bag with spoils, and my bed would be the soil underneath the willow tree. Its comfort now is that I don't have to weep alone. We sit in silence, but the tears roll down my cheeks, and like the falling rain they crash against the molehills' mighty peaks. I remember what she told me when she chose to say goodbye, "I've found myself another man. I'd like to tell you why. We're just too different, you and I," and at the time I disagreed, but two years later now and I still have the scars, but the wounds no longer bleed, and so with clearer head I think, "I was a fool caught up in love," but then I wonder if I'll ever be that boy again. If not, am I just waiting for the end?