If this was the middle of the desert
your words would be a mirage
but, I am happy to fall for them
entangled in your web of fake metaphors.

you backseat drive my mind
until I don't know the right way to go
on my own
until I don't know how to turn left
without your ever present hand guiding the wheel

we meet on opposite edges of a lake
yelling so we can hear
each other and it takes all to long
for me to realize we aren't speaking the same language

if this was the middle of the desert
we would be stumbling up dunes
our feet finding footing
and then slipping once again

it feels like I'm walking and getting nowhere
like no matter how far I lug my feet behind me I am still the same distance
from the top

and you're standing there with a haughty
salute
or a bottle of water
repeating "Just one more step."

if this was the middle of a desert
your words would be a mirage
so why do I keep telling myself: "just one more step."
when I know I'll never get there