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Jack Johnson and What it Means to Give in
January 23, 2010
Blue bed covers
and imprints of bodies in white sheets
piles of bags and coats
and thick smoke.
Spinning. The ceiling turns in slow motion.
Cheerios are crushed
and we step on their crumbling remains as we
dance and laugh.
Regret. Will we regret what we do today?
Will those bedrooms do us wrong?
Closed doors and affection
which is no longer hidden.
And mistakes waiting to be made.
And we know it.
And we make them anyway.
A cool breeze enters through the window.
© Anonymous
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