SCRATCH THIS

and my thoughts of
all that could have been.

The first question
"Have you ever wanted to be distraught?"
printed Y/N's in practiced ink.

Crouched in the plastic seats
the dusty warm air beside acrylic panes
not the third row from the door but here at the back;

walk straight and turn left.

The illusory deception of isolation
is a convicting one.

I write names, ours,
with countless others

and every day I'll wait,
melting into routine

one not of desperation but
blinded dedication to this persistent disillusion.

some days I ask, "do I care that much?"
and I find myself torn between
affirming suspicions and
and --

the only thing that concerns me
is the lacking plausibility of concern.

Yet nagging at the back of my mind
just maybe

if

I had said it then
I could have been there
waiting for our sun to set
waiting for our time to pass

my clouds are smudged in dripping white

so let hope be damned
and faith be forgotten.

Love
forgone;

(lies)
crumpled on the floor.