you’d think this song and dance would grow weary, by now.
we’ve been to all these haunts a thousand times.
there’s a faint groove in the steps up to the landing.
where we keep grinding our sneakers into the mud.
the cedar handrails cracking and splintering,
from years of tight grips and hard leaning.
the nook hasn’t evolved much since we’ve made things official.
same quiet, reserved corner of the world.
same drab, tiny black chair,
with the faux leather on the arms peeling,
little flecks of fabric flaking onto the floor.
but we’ve no need for ornaments or trinkets, here.
we sit together, a cramped, quivering little mess.
knowing that i’ll never be able to quit you,
and you’ll always be my spectral insight.
never quite in reach, but always weighing me down.
one day, maybe i’ll burn this all down.
leave just the footprints and ash as a cautionary tale,
of what happens to a man
when he makes a lover
out of his sorrows.
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