The conversational well
We've tapped into
Quickly runs dry

We're left
Gasping
For air

We use our phones
Like shields
From wandering eyes
Silences that linger

Grasping at straws
We deal in small talk
Like a cashier and a customer  
Like people who've never met

Distance has betrayed us
Time has eroded our foundation
But if we dig deep enough
We will discover why we were friends

Never ending netflix
Are you still watching?
Yes. I am always watching
Binging: rapid consumption
The sin of a glutton
Always feeling guilty afterwards
Marathoning: a long journey
Requiring stamina and determination
When you finish
You feel acomplished but half empty
As you long for the next race.

The continue watching section
Is an ever changing battle ground
Where titans like Mad Men
With its 7 seasons and hour episodes
Rise and fall
The catalog rotates constantly
An exercise in media darwinism
Where only the strong remain
And the marathon runners
Are at the top of the food chain

Lost in the labyrinth of words
Cigarette carelessly perched
In between her fingers
Smoke rising and swaying
To the jazz
That made the room heavy
With deep contemplation
No one spoke
No one dared to break the silence
To disrupt the voyage
Into our own minds

The clouds, low, thick and suffocating
Made the world feel compact
The airport has normalized
The strange metal beasts
That fly unhindered by gravity
The clouds hang low
The beasts fly high
The sounds of Engines
And Trembling Sonics
Are now heard without context
An otherwordly screech
By some lovecraftian horror
About to pierce the veil
And plummet into our plane

Everyone you see is the main character of their own story
With their own plots and supporting casts
Friends are just people with overlapping narratives
That's why train cars are fascinating to me
The entangling of so many narrative threads
So many people that i'll never see again
We are a series of rivers
Thousands of tributaries flowing and converging
For a single shining moment

People are always giving me notebooks
Once they find out I write
At christmas
At birthdays
At random
At least two a year
They sit in a stack on my shelf
Hundreds of pages blank
Hundreds of poems unwritten
White page syndrome
Magnified ten fold
Intimidation radiating off them in waves
I prefer to use a computer
There, the pages are infinite
The limits are unknowable
No silent expectations to fulfill
Just a never ending canvas