Just as we’re starting to establish a tradition,
phone calls around midnight,
every night except on Saturdays,
my six sevenths.
the call did not come in.
My excuse is,
too much homework.
But I know that you don’t do homework,
that tradition is just a label we made,
to we repeat actions simply to reassure ourselves
and bring a little stability to our insecure lives.
My excuse is almost believable.
But quiet Tuesdays turn into speechless Wednesdays,
turns into silent Thursdays
and this six sevenths that I’d come to love so gently is no longer so reassuring.
This tradition that I thought to be set in stone
is weakly built and crumbling away,
softening with every glance,
more questionable with every thought.
Am I starting to lose you?
When I don’t love who you are as much as who you used to be,
what is it that I’m losing?
I know I can’t set you in stone,
change your ways,
make you my latest case,
but I just hate slow, painful deaths, and
you’re starting to lose me.
Who are you? I spend more time filling in blanks than dissecting the veins of life
I follow the twists and turns you take long after you’ve traveled along them.
Every conversation is nothing but a checklist,
but you also say something and then repeat it and then repeat it and then repeat it and then repeat it and then repeat it.
Well, which one of us are you trying to convince?
You’re losing me.
I cannot see where my toes are pointed. I am an island, lost at sea.
I take a step, my footprints disappearing into the sand,
No impression to leave.
We’ve lost each other.
But such relevance: