Writing

I'm lost in little infinities, 

in stars that multiply the longer I look.  

I lose count of what's real and what's not, 

unsure when the endless stream of numbers concludes, 

Shadows dance on the names we wear, 

hiding our true feelings deep down in our pockets. 

Hearing each other's footsteps as you walk downstage, 

sounds strangely nice. 

“You’re a jerk”

“You’re the worst sister in the world”

“I hope I never see your face”

“Stop moming me”

Every time I reply with 

I love you too

I’m a jerk

I do your chores

How could I

when will it be my turn 

when will it be my turn to be loved 

when will it be my turn to be told i'm everything to someone 

when will it be my turn to feel pretty, otherworldly, stunning

You know what we are?

We’re caged birds.

Birds trapped in a gilded cage.

They try to take away our freedom.

But will we let them?

What’s your answer to that?

We can’t let them.

But we already have.

I thought this would be a

typical

miserable

boring

trip

with the exception of the refuge sought out in my computer

turns out

it would not be

I would encounter my best friend at two rest stops