Dead Flowers

After the silence sets in,
there is a long
and awkward moment.
We’re uncomfortable in our skins,
each uncertain of what to do.
Even a breath
seems like a confession,
a furtive movement,
an exhortation;
and we both struggle
to figure out
what to do with our
hands, eyes and lips.

This is so fitting.
What a way to take every time
we every acted selfishly;
so obsessed with our station,
with our comfort,
our own desires
and throw it in our faces
with such bare impunity.
I find it a wonder
we even survive ourselves.

I look at you,
you look at me
and I look away.
Then you look at me,
I look at you,
hold you gaze
and then you look away.
We do this childish dance
for a little while,
it seems like we might reconcile,
but really,
we’re each waiting for the other one
to break.
Because somehow,
an admission of wrongdoing,
is tantamount
to weakness,
and surrender.

If this is how we view things,
we’re going to be sitting here
staring at these same dead flowers
a day,
a week, a month from now.
So let’s fight;
so we can fuck
and move on
to getting over ourselves.

HG – 2019

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