I watch these projections of us.
You're magnetic and I cannot keep up
and I feel as you move in real close
and I feel as your head arose.
You're a figment.
I believed it.
I depart, your dog died today,
and you drive all the way here to tell me "I'm okay".
And I left and I didn't say goodbye,
and I ran all the way home in the gray moonlight.
It's dark now but we made it that way
with what we drink and how we think and what we say.
We degrade ourselves
and then expect help.
It's morning, we're still in the same place.
We are diluted; we are the only ones awake,
and you hold me like you do it everyday.
I chase a graceful way to erase or to run away.
We diverge and I collapse into my bed
and you are shoved awkwardly into my head.
Wage sleep to sleep in,
American weekend.