they are "those moments" when you allow yourself to feel
the banalities that surround you.
and when you start feeling them,
you find it harder to pretend they are not there again.
you can't come back to what you used to believe:
that you have a relationship
and your bond may remain unseen
but is just as strong as it was when you first met.
you tell yourself, "it's not falling apart"
but you'll find yourself inspecting the cracks
and awfully fill them with self-reassuring fallacies.
it's when you allow yourself to feel the pain
that the metaphors become fingers picking on the same wound
over and over again,not letting it heal.
you smell your own tears on your pillow,
taste the alcohol forming at the pit of your stomach,
hear the water run from a distant river;
the incoherent conversation of drowned voices, gurgling words of what?
---love, hatred, vengeance, wisdom, the secrets of the world?
no one can tell.
they all sound the same;
all just as filthy and as marred as the others.
a high-pitched, strand of mortality
thin sound of ending
is what your senses seek, hoping it slashes and cuts through your skin
in a single strike but deeper
than the other marks left by "those moments" when you allowed yourself to feel.