On and on and on again,
he speaks of transcendence
and this lonely dance,
fair muscles twisting
out into the world
that wouldn't hold.
Over and over and over again,
she says she doesn't believe in forever
and this beautiful scene,
love is just a myth
brought on by chemicals.
Why is it we always end up in the arms
of the people we created with our despair?
The black around the edges feels forced
and we've declined comment,
on the grounds that nothing lasts
longer than our souls,
always connected, beyond the eye,
beyond all moments, and then some.
He speaks of love, she speaks of doubt,
we all speak to hear ourselves out,
and, dear God, can't we just ever shut up?
"What's on your mind?" she asks.
"Do you love him?" he corners.
"Not the way I love you," she confirms.
He wonders if that's a good thing.
Over and over and on and off and in and out,
everything that felt real and true and good
suddenly feels limited, and if I only had the courage
to ask her to stay, then maybe I'd be more.
I do not find completion in her smile,
but I always find redemption in her arms.
She sleeps, he screams, two sides of the same story
or coin, and forgive me for saying so, this crazy trip
is just an excuse for friction.
I'm not the person I thought I was.
She spends thirteen hours sifting
through mirrors, connecting
against the current, strong and hopeless,
carnivore workshop demons,
sad crayon drawings and circumstance,
she keeps telling me I'm happy,
but I'm not the same person I was last week.