any one person can withstand pain.
But there is a subtle difference.
When it isn't registered..
Like a dream that alludes the recently awoken.
For the moment is always questioned as fiction when it comes about.
As if building a freeway over the desolation would bypass the isolated incident.
With every pass does it become so.
And yet it is ever so aparrent.
Like a splinter made of ice.
For when the initial trauma fades.
The cold.
Numb.
Aftermath.
Sets in.
Making every other impalement go unnoticed.
Picking at old scars with phantom limbs.
Visible only to other ghouls.
Which have sadly become the only contact available.
And neither the shadow nor the image it belongs to are recognizable.
And this room full of strangers gains an addition to its ever changing painting.
One that will inevitably be painted over.
For it has become not only a constant.
But a certainty.
One that will be upheld.
Regardless if this hand helps it.
Or not...

My hands above my head,
I grasp for purpose,
and pull the Sun to my chest.

Circles become arbitrary.
Squares, the cousins of
rectangles are discredited as
man-made. That's why metaphors
known as squares are seen as
vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum.
They are dotted lines
dependent on right angles,
left ashtray to explain anomalies.

So for order we justify lines.
We contain music within them.
Until, of course, the Holy Ghost
is found. Because that strike
against the canvas is thought
to be premeditated.

But that isn't human nature.
That isn't God.
It will only become recorded
notes on a page.
It's retrospect.
A future remembrance of the past.
It's the Sun in your heart,
knowing that containing that
kind of energy is hazardous
to your health.

I keep thinking about sending that text
"thanks for yesterday"
whilst I suppose it's slightly less crass than
"thanks for last night"
as your reply was still heartfelt
"it was nice to have someone to waste a day with"
I kind of have to admit I read it as
"it was nice to have someone to waste away with"

I keep thinking about that night
the one I spent with you
thinking about how it didn't feel
more so than about how it felt
I keep thinking about who I am
and about how you weren't her
really, it can't be your fault though;
that the love isn't waning

Its neither here nor there.
Always watching.
Seemingly waiting.
But more off to the side.
Like a sibling forced into pickup duty.
Three minutes go by.
And the inevitable call is made.
Anger and impatience swell with every unanswered ring.
No one asked to be apart of this incessant dance.
The beat is always off.
Even the tune is becoming bothersome.
What prize is there for those that acomplish indifference.
When the winner is dragging their feet to the podium.
No one is willing to listen.
Any exchange at this point brings nothing but fire.
A molotov with no fuel.
For in the end.
It all just hangs their in the precious balance.
Like the suit thats a little to big to wear in the corner of the closet.
Sitting there.
Collecting days.
Until the night comes.
Just to be overlooked.