Shoulder to shoulder, flesh spilling over Flesh: our warm bodies heave And contort together, leaving no room For sentiment that goes deeper than Your off white down comforter.
Nobody is in love.
The harsh sunlight seeps in Through down turned blinds, And thin, translucent eyelids, Both half open, but oblivious to the Indifferent world. Life is too much with us- Never leaving us alone to really feel:
The cold, smooth wooden floor pushing up Against the delicate archs of our sinewy feet, As they drop down to meet the briskΒ Β morning air, That seems to coat everything revealed and left vulnerable By the crumpled up sheets limply collapsed over the headrest, Or the soft, steady breathing Of someone left unstirred by the dizzying Relay of thoughts that dance across my
Foolish mind. No one is in love, here. The last fragment of hope Was forgotten underneath mismatched blankets That bear the faint scent of lavender fabric softener sheets And something that lingers nameless beneath your presence. The indented pillow, where you lay your head Holds fast your hollow shape, As if to remind us that reality is only as real As those who are brave enough to feel it.
Time treads on and on, Leaving us scrambling over coffee tables And yesterdays newspaper strewn across the bedroom floor, Blindly groping the abysmal space to find something That isn't really there. Instead it's nestled between The tiny slivers of our hearts, Scattered across neon billboards and thee star hotels, Pleading with us to acknowledge it's elusive presence Before the world runs out of excuses, And we're met with a big boom,