Yes,
we are all
hanging on
by a thread.
But what they don’t tell you
is that the thread count
varies
as time spools on.
One day,
you’ll be
down
to
a
single strand,
but time will
intertwine ’til
you’ve got enough rope
to pull yourself out of danger.
That’s just the nature
of this thing.
So don’t fault yourself
for the days in which
you have no idea how
the threadbare remnants
of stability
can keep you
hanging on.
Weave them together
with mine
and we’ll
hold
strong.
If I’ve learned anything
about relationships
it’s that
love
needs to simmer.
When you take it like a shot,
it’s only gonna drop
before long.
Sure, you’ll float on it
briefly
but the pedestals
on which you built
to supplement
the substance it
was lacking
will crumble at the slightest doubt.
And you’ll walk out
carrying with you an empty space
full of questions.
But we’re not blessed with
a debrief,
a clinical evaluation
to pinpoint
where it all went wrong.
All we get are
algorithmic memories
curated to make us wonder
what could have been
if we’d just given
it
time.
In a car
in the winter
with zero heat
Leaning back
sinking deeper
into the seat
A ringing phone
undertones
of the icy day
And I’m too frozen
and weary
to walk away
The apologies
I am still waiting on
do not sustain me.
They are not a
main course,
but dessert—
not something I need,
not something I’ll feed off
but
they would still taste
so
sweet
coming at the end of this all.
The first day of warmth
after a long, bleak winter;
sunshine feels like hope
If I close my eyes
strain my ears
draw my brow together
I can just about
hear the faint
echo of forever
As it dips and swirls
through the fog
gliding up to greet me
I return its gaze
with a nod
giving in completely
I can see you
are wary
Though the terror is no longer
scary
but a fixture
ever present
in the rooms
of our days
and it looms
and it stays
and it bobs
and it sways
to the tune of
clichés
that we share because there’s
nothing left to
do
I feel it too
I can see you
Frozen exhalations
under the glare of a deceptive sun
Fingers numb
and fumbling with frigid keys
On the trees
frost clings picturesque from the storm
And I’m not sure warm
is something that
I’ll ever feel
again.
The first drip of consciousness
a syrupy awareness
that rolls through your body
and leaves you wanting more
The second that you notice
the sunlight from the curtains
that swirls through the stale air
and plays along the floor
The third shot of espresso
a jittery essential
that carries you onward
and lets you face the day
And all for what purpose?
A fleeting sense of impact?
The flickers of connections
before they fade away?
What are we chasing?
What are we escaping?
Who are we kidding?