Thursday, January 21, 2010

I called you up once, but I never heard your excitement

Your couch is permanently dented
From where we left our innocence.
Your table, permanently scarred
From where we changed our names.
Your door is permanently jammed
From when we became confused.
Your mirror, permanently shattered
From when we decided we hated ourselves.
And your hands are permanently unsteady
From your desperate attempt to hold on.
And your eyes, permanently glazed
From your new found lack of interest.
And though your house is busted,
And though your body is unresponsive,
I still lay myself on that couch,
And leave my bottles on that table,
And try to find myself between the pieces
Of that shattered looking glass.
And maybe you’ll come and sit with me
And maybe you won’t.