#trevor
What exactly
is the point
of all this?
To eat
To sleep
To ****
To work
and repeat
for
the following days
The occasional smile
to break the mundane
The daily monotony
is but a realization
So we sleep
we sleep the
nights away
and repeat
for
the following days
Wash away the days pain
with a swig of whisky
The point of
all this, you ask?
is to repeat
each day until
your final breath
depletes the
one chance
you had at
all of this…
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 10:39 AM UTC
I ask Trevor why he carries around his passport
from when he was 14
as his only form of government I.D.
It's for cigarettes
he says with a shrug,
and takes a drag from the passenger seat
of my car.
He reminds me of someone
who shouldn't be in this era, a misplaced Kerouac,
and at any moment
would hop a freight train
or subway car
to pass through someone else's life
in the time it takes to turn breath
into carbon.
Trevor, I say,
you know you can't get out of the country with that. It's expired.
I know,
he smirks.
I just like the illusion that
I'm going somewhere.
There's a sad sweetness in the way
he keeps his heart
in a list of area codes;
that home is synonymous
with an expired ability to leave
the way a seagull takes to ocean breeze.
I don't know what he'd do if he actually had the chance.
Trevor's passport
is nearly filled with other worlds
he prefers,
and other lives he's lived,
in only a leather jacket
and a pair of scuffed up Adidas.
I keep wondering
about the day he'll turn us
into stamps to include in the rest of his collection,
squeezed into one of the few blank spaces left
in a crowded itinerary,
(cemetery),
and then
he'll renew his passport.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC