Having long since
grown nervous
concerning
what truths
our eyes might
be expressing
when we aren't looking,
gradually,
we have sketched ourselves
into cartoons—whose
frantic expressions
are always
good for a laugh,
and whose
grinning white
skeletons might
survive
their own deaths.
*
In the end, it was only
the stillness
that killed us.
The only way
we knew to head
for home was
in a hurry;
on this fury (and not
on our affections)
did we depend—
we
who would readily
call ourselves "blessed"
to be
all made up
of tiny sentences—such as:
Nobody's perfect.
Stupidity tries.
This changes nothing.
Truth is, I lied.
