so is my front porch for your burnt cigarettes,
remnants of sunday nights and heart to hearts
and moments of desperate uncertainty. every
inhale brings another reason to react, to question
and comment and bicker and fester in all the lost
insecurities that you ponder. when tomorrow comes,
and next week, you will still be smoking the royals
in my car, the turks invading your lungs in some fiery
defiance of reality. i will continue bearing the teas
and the coffees and the insensitivities that crush us
continually, and then build it all up again so i can promise
you that it will all be alright. because in the end,
nothing is the same and nothing is real. while everything
is expanding and disappearing into the distant horizon
of spacial expectations, we are building walls to capture
everything we hope to be, to touch the remaining fragments
of what we strive to never become.