Suicide Chess

Freaky Bourgeois
Junoesque Jealousy.
Wavering,
Stalemate.

Sweat in the Night

We talk. And we talk more. Communication is more than the key, it is the lock and the door, and the room to walk into. We walk, and we walk more,
and the walking leads to more talking
we can walk fast
and fall down.

We can talk fast too
overlapping and excited
sharing the stuff that is important.

Flash back to "why don't we fucking talk like this all the time?"
Shouting and feeling catharsis,
real friends talk without a motive.

Real friends don't have to watch their step.
Real friends are not guarded.

Tell me you hate my apartment.
Tell me you love what I've done with the place, but it's a shitty place, so there's not much more to say.
Tell me that you don't want to love me like that.

We don't have to say dramatic things,
bleeding heart things.
We don't have to say these things because we
fucking show up.
We show up at your doorstep when you are not awake yet
and wait for you to open the door,
because we make ourselves at home wherever we are.

I wasn't supposed to be alive.

I know there are signals, but I have had my eyes closed in the grey
sky, and in the ashtray, and my eyes are on the ground in the parking garage.

I walk past the memories.




I keep walking.