writing on a piece of paper
my lines skew off of the page
in a multitude of directions,
i cannot reign them in

i wonder where my thought ends and the next begins
but there is no way to discern
if they end at all

one small dot
.
symbolizes a finite ending
there is no continuation,
only a definite termination

space for a new thought to begin
where the last one left off

a small piece of grammar
or a beacon of hope?

Pulling out of the drive through, trying to turn left.
Look left, clear.  Look right, busy.  
Wait for right,
waiting waiting.
Clear, pull through.  

"WAIT! Don't go"

slam on breaks

sit partly into intersection

i place my hand on your knee,
i see you trying to swallow, hoping i don't notice while you giggle half-heartidly in attempts to trick me.

"That would have been me....."



"can we not..."    as I try to make you feel better.


2 hours later i sit on your bed reading A Thousand Splendid Suns as you play some game (???) on your computer.  

Skullcandy earbuds followed by a prehistoric lamination machine, much like this poem.

laminating those moments within my plastic sheet-brain

i'm not sure if it is due to our unique complication, our telepathic link, or our pathetic need for reassurance from one another.
it could have something to do with your observational skills in a bedroom corner,
or maybe relating to my constant wandering eye.
whatever it may or may not be,
we have learned that it cannot be ended when we are clothed in v-necks with ripped collars and **** mrs. claus costumes.

if we both are bipolar, then at least we understand.
if we both can separate ourselves, why can't we separate each other?
(we just can't seem to keep our masks off all the time)
how can we go from our lowest lows to our highest highs at the drop of a fedora?
this time the puck is in my zone
shot on goal!
i'm sorry to disappoint
but i can't make the save.