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Standstill
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Six Figures Getting Sick
She thought long and she thought hard about me. I tried so hard to be the weight on her shoulders. My lung collapses; crescent moon. From her Modest Mouse band t-shirt swoon, a joie de vivre a 'get home soon' from my vocal chords incessant croon. I cut my feet on glass that litters the shoreline. Broken bottles and careful steps that I take to keep in time with the tempo in my head, and the tempo of her breath and the tempo of our rest.
I lay awake and stare at her white ceiling. I guess the red that coats the walls needed room to breathe. My veins they wrap like ivy 'round my contorted bones. Contorted sounds leak through these teeth and past the mouth before the mirror cracks we count it down.
We always spoke about obstacles to overcome and we always argued over what was lost and what was won. And I've been told since I was young to learn to stick it out. I always find some way to lie and keep my life consistent with my deep breaths and regrets, and short steps and rejects , and trees that are leafless and keeping in step to a dance that we pursue and avoiding possibilities that there may be another me one year from now.
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