Seated on the cusp of possibility and not yet hopeful,
I'm waiting, again. I know, it's a reoccurring theme with me.
I'm breezing through stagnant days turned to stagnant months without a thought of who, where or why. I'm losing track of the time, and realizing that it seems to crawl along much differently inside these walls. It seems it's always sunny now, but the clouds are always marching closer.
The only precipitation is white and flimsy, paperwork unraveling into shreds of legal terms neither of us can understand.
I've relocated back to the corner, the two of them at their respective places, throne and couch. I can't see the television but I can hear it droning and that's all I need, living on sound as much as air, thriving on noise and suffocating beneath the silence.
The days are meshing into one, long, drawn out predawn now; The nights are indecipherable without a moon, unknowable with that stupid fucking tree in my way. The tree that blocks every cool breeze and lets the ants in. I find them in my tea, in my liquor, on my cigarettes. I found spiders in my borrowed bed last night, and on every surface there's filth under fear. Somehow though, floating on top of it all like a clear-coat laquer is something...not hope, not yet. Maybe happiness. Maybe just comfort. Comfort in repetition, comfort in what I'm holding on to, if only for now.
And as I'm clinging onto you at night, hiding beneath the sheets, sweat and love and fear holding us together, I understand that comfort. I understand that we're at our best when things are the worst. I realize that all that overemotional bullshit might not be bullshit, and that maybe some things can endure.