Flask in pocket
Like a gun in a holster
Fingers itching
To squeeze that trigger
Im already loaded
Prone to misfire
Ready to administer
The self inflicted bullet

The future shines bright
In the theatre of my mind
The past is always better
Through thick rose tinted lenses
The past was great
The present is dying
But the future will be great again
Now is being suffocated
By boundless optimism
And reverence for the dead

Outside drizzle not seen
except through
silhouettes of trees.
An old Nikon swings
from the strap
on my neck.

I get excited
about the tree
next to
the most photographed tree.
I let my finger
rest on the wet trigger
and never shoot.

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