This
evening, I realized something crucial about
us. There
is no us. You and I, there is
only that.
And memories, and thousand year long
silences
that sprawl
between our words. Silences
like a lazy
pillow fight, drifting down on us gently, like
feathers
torn from their companions, torn silk staring at us
like the
gaping hole in togetherness. You and I, not
us. Every
morning I make coffee and the tinkle
of steel
spoon against china blends perfectly
with the
evidence of the night’s desperate alcoholism- our bid
to push
each other further apart, merging, with
our desperate
urge to not forget. But, I think, that
must be
only me. Or is it?
Do you also
somewhere wish the coffee
was
stronger in the morning, because the sun, at 6am, makes
the eyes
water when stared at directly?
i wish
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