Me,
A tendril of a person, wrapped around a bruised finger.
An obsession, as you’ve said before.
Problems and struggles and flaws and fault
When really,
What is fault, when everything has two sides?
Not two dimensional, so deep,
So rooted into the pure
Existence of something so realistic
You and me, but that’s not what it was anyways
That’s how they describe normality
Not like we ever fit that anyways.
Dial the pinned number on your phone,
Cry and scream and kick long limbs around like it’ll fix things.
But those scars came from cuts;
Cuts that healed over time and bandages made of paper,
Paper that was bound to end in flames.
Homes in each other,
Homes made of sand and salt flakes that make my head hurt,
Built up galaxies that were always bound to crumble.
Like you, like how you are,
Collapsing on yourself like a brittle shell,
A white globe descending through time.
For it’s so easy for those
Numbers, gliding through zeros and stages of life.
Because that’s what life is;
Are you what life is?
A number and some vertical ovals on a page,
A ripped-out love note on a paper,
Discarded into the speeding archway path of what you’re going through?
You,
A thorned, romanticised flower,
An elusive figure in the distance that never got close enough to be tangible,
A figure that left her keeper
Nipping at shadowy, aching heels
While you kick dust into the air behind them
And I inhale it, over and over again,
and
I do it for you.
and
I make mistakes,
and you
Claim that I challenge you, but really,
Do I scare you?
Are the cuts on your upper arms fears,
Engraved souvenirs of the past that are just starting to fade?
Will you tell people that they’re my fault?
Or are you just afraid of being wrong?
Or am I just afraid of being wrong?
Or are we just afraid of being without the other?
Really, I’m the we that’s afraid,
Because the other is you.
And in our reality,
I’m just facing the elephant in the funhouse mirror,
And realising that I’m not sure what to do without you.