Melted Dreams

Sometimes I look into the reflection and see the little boy with forest green eyes 

begging the world to end so he wouldn’t feel anymore. 

But then I see an old cripple 

Sometimes we stay outside

on your front steps.

It’s peaceful there.

There are no cars  

or stomping feet.

There are no dishes 

He counts his days with scrutiny,

a tedious sort of precision

that always leaves him somehow 

empty. 

7 days since his last drink,

I thought I liked the way you held your head,

it was casual and sincere,

not unlike the way you smiled.

But this was different from your smile…

I’m pale,

white as snow-

cold as your eyes. 

Ancient,

eroding,

creaking like a rocking chair,

or an old swing.

The mangled materials that make us are not defined by the components,

they are not defined by the ideas or the movements.

They are what they are,

pieces to create a greater whole.