and I wonder (never for the first time) why the chasm between knowing and doing is so, so wide.
the distance is implicit in limp arms and half smiles and my heart is steeling and breaking in time with its frenzied beats:
not this, it whispers, anything but.
but when has the world ever listened to those whispers?
the ones we build our castles on,
the ones that do nothing but give way when the storms come.
and I hum the broken refrain of an unfinished song, and when you ask me what I’m doing it’s always
and the lies come so easily now and the tears barely show, and the end?
well, it hasn’t been written yet. isn’t that the point?