Some days,
the absence of you
is heavier than
your presence ever was.
It pulls at my limbs,
slowing to a stop
even the thought of movement.
I paint a thousand scenarios
where you and I are happy,
but my ink is running dry.
I cannot keep hoping
for a someday
that will never come.
We have been here before,
this place,
this awful place,
that we both loathe.
This path is worn smooth by
our shuffling,
dancing around one another.
We have said these words before,
these lines,
an endless refrain,
have evaporated off of our tongues
until we are dry,
and still,
and we are not done with them yet.
We will be here again:
this place,
these words.
Some days, I think
we will never find new stories
to tell one another.
Some nights, I think,
this is all we will ever know.
