i imagine you rotting. rotting and melting. flesh becomes matter as it falls to the floor. we wear our hearts on our sleeves and the floor wears our skins and muscle. that’s how it always goes, right?
why are you looking at me like that? you know that we’re the same (we’re the sane).
getting back on track, you’re falling apart as i watch (you made sure i did; i couldn’t ever take my eyes off you). you’re completely exposed now, bones and all. you say to me “its like i’m looking in a mirror”. at least, you said with your eyes. your lips are on the floor, sinking into the stained carpet (believe me when i say this because if they were still attached i would have kissed you right then and there).
suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. you try to wipe them away, but they don’t stop. you pick up some of your muscle to try to soak them up, and i tell you that’s not the kind of tissue i need. you laugh, but nothing comes out (your lungs have already decomposed. it seems you’ve already forgotten).
and then i look away. my tears dry, and, as i look back, you’ve reformed. good as new. not for long though, as soon as a minute goes by you start this cycle again. you’re rotting. i look away, you’re back. rot, return, rot, reform,
don’t you ever get tired? (i do.)
i guess you could say i’m “back” but was i ever really gone?