spoons

in the bars, parsonages unto themselves, we undo ourselves. well whiskey weathered for the worst. for the submersible task of being human. of having relived renewals time and time again. of having stories surround us. we drink along the intersection of multiple lines on a singular plane. the intersections whereupon various crash sites have been memorialized, serialized and put to rest. put upon us to be forgotten. bones more like bottles, to drown into the obscurity of long, late nights. we try to abate. but the penance of persistence of memory, has us drunk driving, careening in and out of our emotions and placations. in and out of all the things we try not to say. the clumsy shuffling of words so ingrained in us, their meaning is completely lost. words that simply become idols of failure. it never comes out right. a kiss is just a kiss. and most of the time we can't even recall what we're missing so badly. or it's the sublime second lost amongst months of torture.

in the bars, parsonages unto themselves, we undo one another. tattering our own sails, and worse off, others'. so easily blown off course. it's easy to ignore how fragile we really are. i fell in love once. and i've been digging at the walls with spoons trying to get out.