you keep your promises stashed behind the bedroom door; your sanity keeps it company from its position on the dresser, hanging perilously by a thread. there was a war in your bedroom, and it left chaos in its wake.

i can't see the floor underneath all your clothes and looseleaf sheets of paper. i think it's brown carpet. you dig through piles of jeans and t-shirts, searching for the floor. i don't really know, you joke. maybe i don't have a floor. it's not funny, but it might be true; i feel as though the floor has been swept from under my feet. (i'm falling.)

i land on the bed, basically an island in the middle of a sea of material things. looking up at you, i realize you're a mess but i don't care because you wear sandals in the middle of winter, and part your hair in the middle, and you don't own a single pair of sneakers. it's a bit impractical, you admit, because if there's a fire, i'll only be able to walk away. laughing, i struggle to stand back up. it's hard to find a place to stand; i'm afraid of stepping on your jeans and leaving a dirty footprint. don't worry about it, you shrug. you have to leave your mark somehow, right?

finally back on my feet, i swallow my pride and say (a few moments late): i'd rather walk with you than run with the other fools.

a/n: we have to leave our mark any way we can.