Rhythmic typing on the dusty old keyboard,
a rehearsed and half hearted greeting committed to memory through convenience.
These days blur together with the hello's and the goodbye's,
incoming strangers trying to find a purpose.
This desk is like a prison that asks too much and pays too little,
with smiles from distance ghosts and greetings from wounded travelers.
My veins are collecting dusk as my bones grind together
burning at both ends, my seams are frayed and falling apart,
I'm a rag doll.
He stitches patches on my missing parts and bullet wounds,
he calls it love,
picking up the pieces and cleaning up the blood dripping from my bad decisions and messy intentions.
He understands me
with his innocence peeking through his smile,
his eyes are like windows to a world you find in the dreams of little children.
Sometimes I cry at night, wrapped in his arms
the wind of doubt and fear chilling my skin and bones
I want to wrap myself in the warmth of his confidence
basking in the enlightenment that are his thoughts.
My statue, rock of truth.

This dreary life lightened by the simple reality of the breeze that is him,
rustling the dust within me.
My truth.
My escape from dusty keyboards.