The morning finally comes around.
I see you in the doorframe, frozen as usual, silent. You seem to be smoking more these days. As if you're making a point. In my head I move to your shoulder, grasp it gently, just like in those movies you hate. But I'm still in bed, unsure of the next move, what to say, what to do. Still the same, always you. Always you. Borrowed. Cold. Blue. Like those twisted wedding vows you whispered one night, cruel. A chapel of our disgrace blushes your cheeks a telling blue.
We were cold that night, escaping the warmth. But you were always colder, escaping yourself. But I still loved the you you were trying to escape from, and the you you were trying to run to.
I know you're lost. You looked in my eyes and told me you weren't lost, I just hadn't found you yet.
Quietly pedantic in your silent rage you shift your weight. Nondescript and elated I wait, ceaselessly to be deflated. But I covet your shape with my fingers, sketch your outline on the covers.
You remember, don't you? You don't speak much anymore, but I never committed the questioned to air. This is all imaginary. This conversation is only with myself, and yet...you're still standing in the doorframe, a cigarette between your fingers...