Real Life

Dark stars
and sunspots
and refrigerator doors.
Your face in fluffy clouds
and raindrops
and cigarette smoke.
It’s all such a mish-mosh
of shadows and shards
of lives lived
without or within
and I don’t think
we can ever know
someone else.
Just outside cases
of who we think we are.
Car keys
and careers
and moonlit walks
but never ache
and life
and real.
Shut up inside
skin and bones
and we are all
just the children
we used to be
inside wrinkles
and responsibilities
and society.
We dream
inside boxes
shaped like homes
and believe it’s fantasy
gift wrapped in mundane.
Card tables
and Thanksgiving
and text messaged living
and we fold our hands
and smile.
So take my hand
and sprint
for the cherry door
and break the opaque glass
blocking our view of forever.

2 thoughts on “Real Life

  1. Love this … I love when your words speak more to yourself than some lost love like an old pair of jeans worn thin beyond forgiving.

    First I wore through the thigh, then I cut off the legs, then more rips, more torn, holes where, well where it’s not appropriate, but still won’t give them up. Sewed the crotch up…wore them like pajamas, ripped open again. Why? Clearly they don’t love me back though I imagine they do, despite how I torture them. It’s all about me, really, isn’t it?



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