about us

they leave it all behind.
your words,my scars,
(and the other way)
your hopes,my failures
(these remain exclusive)

My forgetfulness is only
the overwhelming memory
of all thats lost without ever
having been played.

it will not be long before
this house becomes dust
not long after we retreat
into impossible silences
and the whispers i hear
from across the walls
will be buried in textures
of pain and acrylic.

But when they write us
in their version, we will
be the stuff of happiness,
not perfection, but delusion
nevertheless.all that they
leave out, all the rest, that
is where you and i will lie
in the glistening truth of
anonymous resentment.