Status: Complete.
Spectacular.
headlight casualties.
Nothing new happens today, or tomorrow, yesterday or in a week. We’re bored, our door’s unlocked, but we aren’t opening it. Instead, we twist the lock and block out the world. We can stare at each other as long as we’d like, but we can’t read each other’s mind.
The couch is old. Donated as charity. Wedding gift. Not that I care much for it, but it’s a useful tool for serious conversation, an easy way to sit and not be obliged to stare. Not like when you’re on a chair, and he on a couch.
When you’re forced to stare at each other, because the paint isn’t interesting, curtains have been there for years, what’s to see? New specs of dirt? I’m not much for counting the dust bunnies.
Sometimes, for minutes at a time, you can’t even hear the other breathing, for a second your own heart stops beating and – forgive me, the corny is just too much to bear – the only two people in the world is him. And you.
Reality is, we’re just a bunch of thickheads. It’s like reliving the same moment over and over. We take the white paint and we spread it like butter over our past, so we can redo the same thing. Lathering, rinsing and repeating.
Its so easy to start all over again, we take the paint and we spread it along the white butter, and we ruin it, all the time and every time. Just try to fix the mistake, it never works, so we have to repeat, we have to wipe the slate clean. But it won’t ever stay clean.
Heaven forbid I adopt the abnormal way of speaking, to speak not like a disgusting poem, but like someone who has an original thought in the dusty brain.
This is the beginning of the rinsing. It won’t work, but we thought we’d try it again. Thought maybe we’d get something through if we sat on the couch, if we didn’t have to see each other. It works, though, the not seeing each other. And it works, though, the cycle. Eventually, maybe, it won’t, but eventually, maybe, it will. Eventually, maybe, it will change.
The couch is old. Donated as charity. Wedding gift. Not that I care much for it, but it’s a useful tool for serious conversation, an easy way to sit and not be obliged to stare. Not like when you’re on a chair, and he on a couch.
When you’re forced to stare at each other, because the paint isn’t interesting, curtains have been there for years, what’s to see? New specs of dirt? I’m not much for counting the dust bunnies.
Sometimes, for minutes at a time, you can’t even hear the other breathing, for a second your own heart stops beating and – forgive me, the corny is just too much to bear – the only two people in the world is him. And you.
Reality is, we’re just a bunch of thickheads. It’s like reliving the same moment over and over. We take the white paint and we spread it like butter over our past, so we can redo the same thing. Lathering, rinsing and repeating.
Its so easy to start all over again, we take the paint and we spread it along the white butter, and we ruin it, all the time and every time. Just try to fix the mistake, it never works, so we have to repeat, we have to wipe the slate clean. But it won’t ever stay clean.
Heaven forbid I adopt the abnormal way of speaking, to speak not like a disgusting poem, but like someone who has an original thought in the dusty brain.
This is the beginning of the rinsing. It won’t work, but we thought we’d try it again. Thought maybe we’d get something through if we sat on the couch, if we didn’t have to see each other. It works, though, the not seeing each other. And it works, though, the cycle. Eventually, maybe, it won’t, but eventually, maybe, it will. Eventually, maybe, it will change.