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Back into resentment you went, through the glass house door. The mind fills up and absorbs, does away with waste in the wake of drift.
We're too damned sick yellow to ever leave then the drawbacks appear, no other worlds, no sky. Couldn’t bring in my drawings to share them with you.
In the end, any particular feeling must die. Its light sinks into decay and its oceans lock in ice. The direction of survival doesn’t matter. Whichever hands you hold, bones will sow what earth remains.
I wish I could say the passage of time is our friend, from whirling temptations fell outcomes of laughter, resentment, abuse.
It made us so sick we couldn’t ever leave, except leave our bodies behind in an orgy of defamation and booze.
In the end, nothing profound ever came, the glitter of each others eyes drying while we're in the same room.
Still meeting where mattresses caved, sheets like low hanging clouds. Enjoying ephemeral freedom.
One time I let go one hundred tiny birds, they fluttered a painting, deserving flight but not metaphor.